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“ The Bible was placed on the chair, and over it the basin, upon which 
Mary climbed,” etc. — Page 369. 


THE 


Watchers on the Longships. 


gi. ®alt of Conifoall iit |tasf fitnlarg. 


BY 


JAMES F. COBB, F.R.G.S., 

AUTHOR OF “ SILENT JIM,” “ HEROES OF CHARITY,” ETC. 




^ 0 
W 



--L 


FROM THE EIGHTH LONDON EDITION. 


'V ! 




NEW YORK : 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 

No, 15 .AsTOR PLACli, 


r~ ■ . /y 





Copyright, 1882, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 


Boston Stereotype Foundry, 
No. 4 Peakl Street. 


PREFACE. 


It may be of some interest to the readers of the fol- 
lowing tale to know that many of the incidents related 
in it, highly improbable as they may seem, are strictly 
founded upon fact. The light was first exhibited in 
the Longships on the 29th September, 1795, as related 
in the story. That one of the keepers of early days, 
who was left alone there, and had not been informed 
previously of the horrible noises caused by the pent- 
up air in the cavern below, became so terrified that 
his hair turned white in a single night is a well-known 
fact. All the circumstances, also, relating to the little 
girl who was left alone in the lighthouse, — her father, 
the keeper, having been purposely kidnapped and con- 
fined by wreckers, — and who was reluctantly obliged 
to stand on the Family Bible to light the lamps, are 
perfectly authentic. 

The noble and heroic exploit of the young clergy- 
man, related towards the close of the story, is so far 
tine, that the incident really occurred at, or near, the 


iv Preface. 

spot described. The hero, however, was not a parson, 
but a schoolmaster. 

It is, perhaps, as well to mention that the term 
‘'Methodist'’ was in former days used, not so much 
to denote any particular sect, but applied indiscrimi- 
nately as a term of reproach to all earnestly religious 
people, whether Churchmen or Dissenters. It is in 
this sense that it is so frequently employed in our 
story. 


While this volume is written bj an ardent Churchman, its spirit 
is so catholic, and its spiritual lessons so excellent, that no per- 
sons of other communions, will take serious exceptions to its 
teachings in reference to the ordinances of the English Estab- 
lished Church. 

Am. Editor 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 


I.) 

A Dying Bed and a Darkened Home 


7 

II./ The SquiRE and his Son 

. ' . 


20 

III; 

Arthur’s Plan 

. 


31 

IV. 

Philip and his Foes 

. 


39 

V. 

A Plot 



50 

VI. 

A Cornish Parson and his Work 


55 

Vll. 

The Capture . . . . 



65 

VIII. 

A Fruitless Search 

. 


83 

IX. 

On Board the Fleet — the 

Battle of 

the 



First of June . 

. 


97 

X. 

The First Watcher on the 

Longships . 


116 

XI. 

A Hazardous Voyage and a 

Bold Leap . 


134 

XII. 

The Second Watcher on the Longships. 


149 

XIII. 

Deliverance 

. 


160 

XIV. 

A Cruise and a Long Fight 

. 


167 

XV. 

Prisoners —Tom’s Story 

. 


193 

XVI. 

The Light Burns Again 

♦ « • 

*. 

208 


VI 


Contents. 


CHAPTER. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 


Christmas in the Lighthouse and on Shore, 

A New Conspiracy 

The Little Watcher on the Longships 

Homeward Bound 

A Memorable Sunday 

The Wreck — A Noble Self-Sacrifice . 

At Home and in Peace 


PAGE. 

223 

239 

265 

276 

289 

310 

342 


THE 


WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A DEATH-BED AND A DARKENED HOME. 

“ The tongues of dying men • 

Enforce attention like deep harmony ; 

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, 

For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. 

He, that no more must say, is listened more 

Than they, whom youth and ease have taught to glose ; 

More are men’s ends marked than their lives before ; 

The setting sun, and music at the close. 

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last ; 

Writ in remembrance, more than things long past.” 

— -Shakspeare, Richard III. 

On a slightly rising ground to the west of the little 
village of Sennen Cove, near the Land’s End, there stood, 
towards the close of the last century, a small cottage, 
roughly built of granite blocks, with a thatched roof, on 
which rested several huge stones. Its situation exposed it 
to the violence of all the gales which swept over the 
Atlantic ; the winds, from whatever point of the compass 
they blew, howled and whistled round its walls ; the noise of 
the breakers, as they dashed on the iron-bound coast below, 
was ever present to the ears of its inhabitants, who had 
grown so accustomed to their dull, monotonous roar, that 
they would almost have been startled by its absence. A 


8 TJic Watchers on the Lougships. 

neat little garden surrounded the cottage; here, in spring 
and summer, a few hardy flowers might be seen, but it 
was for the most part planted with potatoes and turnips. 
Not a tree or a shrub grew anywhere near, but several 
immense granite boulders were strewn here and there on 
the ground, within a short distance of the humble 
dwelling. 

It was a wild and tempestuous night at the beginning of 
November. With more than usual fierceness did the wind 
roar round the cottage walls. Rain and spray beat against 
the windows, which shook and rattled with every fresh gust. 
There was no moon, and not a star was to be seen in the 
cloudy sky. The scene within the cottage was in complete 
harmony with the gloom without. On a bed in the corner 
of a small and neatly-furnished room a poor woman is 
lying. Her face is pale, wan, and wasted; it is evident 
that her last hour is approaching ; her thin hands are clasped 
over her breast, and her eyes wander with sad but affec- 
tionate gaze from one to the other of the three remaining 
occupants of the room, from whom she knows she must so 
soon be parted. These are a tall, weather-beaten man of 
sailor-like appearance, between forty and fifty years of age, 
who is standing close to the head of the bed, and, evidently, 
is the husband of the dying woman. Every now and then 
he bends over her with loving tenderness ; with his rough 
hand he smooths her pillow, raises her head that he may 
put some refreshing drink to her parched lips, while all the 
time the tears roll down his cheeks. On the other side of 
the bed stands a little girl, whose acute grief is plainly de- 
picted in hexTountenance ; she from time to time takes her 
mother’s hand and kisses it, covering it with her tears. At 
the foot of the bed a young lad, of about fifteen, is kneel- 
ing ; his whole frame is convulsed with sorrow, his face can- 
not be seen, for it is buried in his hands ; but his deep sobs, 


A DcatJi-Bcd. 


9 


which he is utterly unable to suppress, may be heard amid 
the howling of the wind, and the splashing of the rain and 
spray against the windows. 

“ OweA,” said the dying woman, in a very faint voice, 
‘‘ Owen, the end is near now, I feel sure. I am so weak 
and faint. I must say farewell to you and little Mary and 
poor Philip. May God bless you and keep you all when I 
am gone.” 

The husband bent over her and kissed her forehead, but 
he could not say a word ; fresh sobs and bursts of tears 
proceeded from the son and daughter. 

“ Owen,” she began again, “you have been a good, kind 
husband to me, and now we must part ; but I have one 
thing to say before I go.” 

“ Mother 1 mother ! will you really leave us ? ” sobbed 
the little girl. 

“Yes', my child, it is God’s will. Owen,” she said, in a 
still fainter voice, looking lovingly up into her husband’s 
face, “ for my sake, when I am gone, don’t be led astray 
again — do not join those bad men — do not go down to 
the grave with ” 

“ Stop, Ellen, dearest,” exclaimed the man, trying to 
master his grief, “ do not -let such thoughts trouble you 
now. No, no, I promise you, solemnly I promise you. I 
will never join the wreckers again. I have seen enough 
of their wicked, murderous ways. O Ellen, you know it 
was not of my own will. I was to blame, indeed, for I was 
easy and weak — but I was drawn into it. I have not led 
a wrecker’s life. Only twice ” 

“ Alas ! Owen, yes. I know you are too easily persuaded. 
You say only twice, but even then you may have helped 
to cause the death of some poor fellow-creature just within 
sight of home. Oh ! that wild, wicked way of life — the 
curse of this land 1 ” 


10 The IVatchers on the Longships. 

“O Ellen, Ellen! forgive me,’’ sobbed the man; “be 
assured it will never happen again. You know how. sorry 
I was afterwards ; and then we were so poor at that time, 
and you looked so pale and ill after nursing Philip in the 
fever.” 

“ Owen 1 Owen I money earned in such a way can only 
bring a curse.” 

“ I know that,” said the husband ; “ may God forgive me 
the wickedness I joined in then. They shall never force 
me to go with them any more — they may kill me first.” 

“Don’t be over-confident, Owen. Yet I feel happier 
now ; I know you won’t deceive me, nor forget your promise 
to your dying wife ; but pray God to give you strength to 
resist temptation if it comes.” 

“ I will, indeed, Ellen — I will, indeed,” he said earnestly. 

“ Mary, dearest child,” said the poor mother, “ I am going 
to leave you. Try and be a comfort to your poor father 
when I am gone. He will have troubles enough — don’t 
add to them. And Philip, dear, come and give me a last 
kiss too.” The lad got up and bent over his mother to 
kiss her. Thick and fast did his tears fall upon her pale 
face. “Poor boy,” she said, “you have been a good son 
to me. May God bless and protect you. Help your father ; 
don’t le^^e him to run away to sea, as many do ; and read 
yoifi^ible, Phil, and go to church on Sundays regular, and 
go on te^hing Mary as I used to do.” 

“Yes, mother, I’ll try and do all you wish; but what 
shall we do without you ? ” 

“God will take care of you, my boy. May He guide 
you to do what-is right,” said the mother. 

Philip could not utter a word. In a paroxysm of grief 
he threw himself on the bed and buried his head in his 
hands. 

The little girl held her mother’s cold hand in hers, and 


A Death-Bed, 


II 


gazed lovingly into her face ; she did not speak, for she 
could not, but the tears streamed down her cheeks. 

The husband put his head down on the pillow close to 
his wife^s face, and she whispered to him a few words of 
affectionate farewell. She was rapidly sinking. The 
silence in the room seemed only intensified by the roar of 
the tempest without. 

All at once voices were heard outside the cottage. Wild 
shouts of “ Come on, men ! come on, a wreck ! a wreck ! 
Lights passed the window, and there was a clatter of many 
feet along the path close by. 

The dying woman shuddered, an expression of horror 
passed over her face, and she looked up at her husband. 

“ Never, Ellen, never again, he said, firmly and solemnly. 
“ I would rather starve than do it.” 

“ Thank God for those words. Alas ! Owen, that I should 
hear such sounds now ! ” whispered his wife. 

The wreckers, hastening to their wicked work, had just 
passed by. 

“ They are gone now, mother,” said the little girl. “ They 
won’t come back till the morning; do not think about 
them.” 

“No, my child. ... I am trying to think of the blessed 
place above to which may God bring you all at last, where 
the wicked cease from troubling ” ' 

She said no more, she was quite exhausted. A few 
minutes after the good wife and mother breathed her last, 
and Owen Tresilian was alone with his son and little 
-daughter. , 

The good couple were humble fisher folk, who had lived a 
simple life in that remote nook of old England. They had 
been married well nigh twenty years, and in that period had 
experienced as much of the joys and sorrows of life as is the 
ordinary lot of most mortals in their lowly sphere. Owen, 


12 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


a native of Sennen, had, when quite a boy, gone to sea, joined 
his majesty’s navy, and after some ten years’ service, re- 
turned to, and settled down in, his old home. He married 
Ellen, whom he had known and loved since they were 
children together, and, taking up their abode in the little 
cottage above the Cove, Owen gained his livelihood prin- 
cipally by fishing, but he also made some profits by culti- 
vating a bit of ground which he rented a short distance 
from his cottage. Ellen was skilful at her needle, and 
worked for the squire’s family, and for some of the more 
well-to-do among the villagers. They had had five children ; 
of these the boy and girl above-mentioned were the only 
ones that remained to them. Two had died when infants ; 
one boy had been drowned at sea, — a calamity from which 
his mother never recovered. 

The inhabitants of the few scattered cottages on the sea- 
shore, which formed the hamlet of Sennen Cove, were in 
those days a rude, and almost savage, set of people. They 
professed, indeed, to gain their livelihood by fishing, but 
in reality smuggling and wrecking were their chief em- 
ployments. The wreckers of Cornwall have gained an 
unenviable notoriety. The men of Sennen had, owing to 
the fringe of rocks which surround their coast, to the vio- 
lence of the tempests which raged there, and to the absence, 
in those days, of any lighthouses or light-ships on the 
shore, full opportunity for carrying on their cruel and ne- 
farious occupation. Many a gallant ship, when within 
sight of home, was, by false lights and signals, ensnared 
into the very midst of that maze of rocks which bristle 
round the Land’s End, there to be dashed to pieces, while 
its crew found a watery grave in the angry surf, or more 
lucjcless still, succeeded in* reaching land, only to be put 
to death by the inhuman hands of those who should have 
been the first to rescue them. 


A Death-Bed. 


T3 


It was but natural that men who were accustomed to 
partake in such deeds of infamy should be little removed 
from barbarians, and that any among them who tried to 
lead a more humane or respectable life should be exposed 
to jeers, mockery, or even persecution. 

Such was the case with Owen Tresilian. He had served 
many years in the fleet, had seen much hard service, and 
been engaged in several naval battles with the French; he 
held very different ideas of honor and honesty from those 
entertained by his fellow-villagers. He was a brave man, 
who would not suffer any act of cruelty or meanness to be 
done in his presence ; his undaunted pluck was recognized 
by all. Bad as the Sennen men were, yet the better ones 
could not but respect Owen, while the worst feared him. 
Still there had, alas ! been occasions when even so upright 
a man as Tresilian had yielded to temptation, and joined 
in that which in his inmost soul he abhorred. 

Twice, indeed, when his wife’s health had been failing, 
when his children had been crying for bread, when fishing 
had failed, and there seemed no means to provide for the 
wants of his family, Owen, unknown to his wife, had joined 
in the plunder of vessels which foundered on the rocks 
close by. He had shared in no attempt on either occasion 
to lure these ships to destruction, in fact there was consid- 
erable doubt whether the Sennen people had caused these 
wrecks, and Owen had been persuaded to go down late at 
night, and help to pick up the plunder, which was washed 
on the shore, by one of his companions, to whom he had 
shown considerable kindness, and who was in many respects 
superior to the rest of the villagers, but not above joining 
occasionally in their dishonest enterprises. 

It was only by increased comforts that his wife discovered 
what Owen had done, and very bitter was her grief. She 
implored him with tears never to act thus again. She knev^ 


14 The Watchers on the Longships. 

it had been done for her sake, which almost made her feel 
as if she had been an accessory in the sin. It was the 
remembrance of this which had made her so anxious, 
during her last hours, to induce her husband to promise 
never to consort with wreckers again. 

Ellen Tresilian was a good woman, living up to the light 
she possessed. The last century was notoriously dark and 
profane. Religion was openly disregarded by all classes. 
There never was a period in England of lower morality. 
All vices abounded, drinking to excess, profligacy, riot, 
cruelty, neglect of the poor, oppression of the weak. But 
there were, as always, even in the darkest ages of the 
Church, exceptions to this rule ; bright spots here and there ; 
men and women sometimes in obscure towns and villages, 
sometimes amid all the vice of the great metropolis, might 
be found leading a holy and a godly life, shining forth like 
stars on this dark night of iniquity. Though the Church of 
England was almost lifeless, her clergy for the most part 
idle or devoted to pleasure, neglecting their holy functions, 
and only performing those duties which the law demanded 
of them, yet there were exceptions also among them. 
Good men and true, who led lives of holy self-denial and 
earnest prayer, who were not content with preaching to 
their flocks every Sunday a mere dry morality, but who in 
burning words placed before them the old, old story of the 
gospel, and pointed to the Cross of Jesus as the only refuge 
for the weary and sin-burdened soul. 

Not many years before our story commences, the great 
apostle of the eighteenth century, the saintly John Wesley, 
had made F>ngland ring, from north to south and from east 
to west, with the glorious sound of the gospel of Christ, pro- 
claimedTh such a way as that age had never heard before. 
The holy man had passed into Cornwall ; he had gathered 
around him the rough miners of the interior, and the wild 


A Death-Bed, 


IS 


fishermen and wreckers of the coast. In spite of every 
opposition he preached to them of Jesus. He told them 
that God loved them, steeped in every crime as many of 
them were ; he assured them that God was their father, and 
they His children, as far as they had wandered from His fold. 
Many hearts were touched by his earnest words, tears 
trickled down hard and weather-beaten faces which had 
never been moistened by a tear before, and hands, ©nee 
stained in crime, were now uplifted in prayer. In no part 
of England was the preaching of John Wesley more crowned 
with success than in Cornwall ; men who had been eminent 
for fighting, drinking, and all manner of wickedness, now 
became eminent for sobriety, piety, and all manner of good- 
ness. The wreckers, who had* become such a scandal to 
humanity, and given the country so evil a repute, were every- 
where now on the decrease; only the worst characters 
indulged in this cruel business ; neither was smuggling so 
universal as before. 

Ellen Tresilianwas only a child when she first heard Mr. 
Wesley preach at St. Sennen. His words sank deep into 
her heart, the impression they made was never effaced. 
Owen’s mother was also among the number of those whose 
hearts and lives were changed by listening to the gospel 
message so plainly delivered, and it was owing to her earnest 
admonitions, and to the good seed which she planted early 
in her son’s heart, that though he was not what in those 
days was called a Methodist, yet he was honest, upright, 
and well-conducted, in comparison to most of the men in the 
village. 

At that period neither national nor Sunday schools 
existed. Only here and there could a man or woman be 
found who was able to read, and no shame was felt on 
account of such ignorance. Children were allowed to grow 
up without any education, except what their parents were 


t6 The Watchers on the Longships. 

able to give them, or what they learned from claries, who in 
some villages set up schools on their own account. To teach 
reading was generally the extent of their knowledge. Those 
who were able to write and cipher, were regarded as very 
learned and superior persons. 

It is not tC) be wondered at, therefore, that Owen 
Tresilian could neither read nor write. Ellen had learned 
to read out of an old Family Bible, which was an heirloom 
in the family. Her father, who was a clever man in his 
way, for he not only could read but write a little too, had 
taught her in his leisure hours. She was his only child ; 
so when he died, ver}^ soon after her marriage, she inherited 
the old Bible ; every evening she would read out of it to 
her husband, who listened reverently and attentively to 
the sacred words. And when her children grew up, she 
taught them to read too. Little Mary would often sit 
before the fire with the large volume on a chair beside her, 
poring over the pages ; sometimes she would read stories 
from it aloud, while her mother worked, and her father and 
brother mended their nets. Thus the whole family were 
quite familiar with sacred history — perhaps more so than 
poor folk are in our own days — for the Bible, a Prayer- 
book, and a selection of Wesley’s hymns, were the only 
books they possessed, and over and over again was the 
sacred volume, and especially the gospels, read through. 

E^llen Tresilian, never strong, had sunk into a consump- 
tion, which had carried her off rapidly at the last, leaving 
her husband and children overwhelmed with grief in their 
cheerless and desolate abode. 

The body of the good wife and mother was committed to the 
grave iirthe little churchyard of St. Sennen, a bleak, dreary 
spot indeed, v^ery different from the neat, well-kept church- 
yards nowadays happily so common. In those times a cross 
was never seen above a grave ; at St. Sennen the headstones 


A Daj^kcned Home, 


}7 

were mostly of the coarse granite peculiar to the district. 
Here and there an urn or a broken column surmounted a 
tomb, but these belonged to the more wealthy of the parish- 
ioners. The churchyard was as ill-kept and untended as 
the church, presenting no symbol of hope or comfort to 
mourning hearts. But the beautiful and cheering words 
of the service, with which, in sure and certain hope of a 
blessed resurrection, the Church of England commits her 
children to the earth, then,, as now, spoke of peace and joy, 
and of a happy life beyond the grave. 

The three mourners had returned to their cottage. 
They sat silently round the fire. Owen’s head rested on 
his hands ; his eyes stared vacantly before him. Philip was 
mending a net in a very mechanical way ; his hands moved, 
but his heart was not in his work. He was thinking of his 
loved and lost mother. Little Mary had reached down the 
big Bible from its shelf, and was poring with tearful eyes 
over its sacred pages. 

The father was the first to break the silence. 

“ We have a hard life before us, children,” he said ; it 
has been bad enough indeed hitherto, but now without your 
good mother, who helped and cheered us so, it’s a sorry 
look out for us all.” 

“ Yes, father,” said little Mary, “ but mother used often to 
say when she was ill, and knew that she was going to die, 
that we were not to fret when she was gone, but do all we 
could to cheer and help one another.” 

I know she did, child, but how can we help fretting ? 
How can I alone do everything for you both ? and what’s 
to become of you, Molly, when Philip and I are out fishing 
all day, and sometimes of a night too ? You can’t be left 
all alone here ; you would be frightened, I know ; and 
who’s to get your mealsTor you ? ” 

“ Oh, never mind about me, father ! ” said Mary. I’m 


1 8 The Watchers ffJi the Longs hips, 

0 

not afraid to be alone, neither by day nor by night ; there’s 
no one would do me any harm, I’m sure. Mother taught 
me how to sweep out the room, and showed me how to cook 
the dinner for you and Phil, so don’t trouble yourself about 
me, father.” 

“Yes, child, but therQ are other things to think of. 
Your mother used to earn a good bit of money with her 
needle. Often when the fishing failed, and I could make 
nothing either by that or by the garden, she would scrape 
enough together to keep us honestly afloat. Now she’s' 
taken, and there’s only Phil and me to depend on. Why, 
we may be nigh starving before long, Mcjly, and I don’t see 
who’s to help us.” 

“I do, father,” said Mary, firmly. “ God will. Mother 
often told me so. Our Heavenly Father feeds the fowls of 
the air, and He loves us better than them. It’s here, in 
the Bible. I’ll find it for you,” and then she read the whole 
passage from the sixth chapter of St. Matthew. 

“ You are a good girl, Molly, and take after your mother,” ' 
said the poor man sorrowfully. ‘‘ That’s all true, I know, 
and I’ll try and trust God to provide for our wants, but it’s 
hard to do so at times like these, when all seems to go 
against one.” 

“ Yes, father, ” remarked Philip, ‘‘ and with winter coming 
on too; if it had only been spring, instead of November, 
it wouldn’t be so bad.” 

But it s all the same to God, Phil,” said Mary, solemnly. 

“ You teach us both a lesson, my child,” said Owen, as 
he got up and bent over his little daughter to kiss her. 

You have done me good already, and I know your mother 
is gone to^ happier place, and that I ought not to grieve 
for hei. She often said that God would never forsake her 
motherless children, so I shall try and trust Him, and do' 
the best I can for you myself, as well.” 


A Darkened Ho7ne. 


19 


“ And I’ll work hard, that I will, father,” said Philip. 

I’ll dig at our piece of ground, and plant the potatoes for 
you, and try and get a job now and then up at the squire’s.” 

They all seemed a little more cheerful now, and were able 
to talk more calmly about the future — desolate as it ap- 
peared to them. 

Owen tried all he could to persuade his little daughter 
to let him send her for a year or two to her aunt at Truro. 
He said she was too young to live without womanly care, 
and he could not bear the thought of her being left alone, 
as she often would be, for days, and perhaps nights, in that 
lonely cottage, but he soon saw that it would well nigh 
break the child’s heart to be separated from him and her 
brother. She implored him to let her stay. Philip, too, 
espoused her cause, so that the father at last yielded, and 
consented that she should remain. 


20 


The Watchers on the Longships, 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE SQUIRE AND HIS SON. 

*‘0h, it is hard work for God, 

To rise and take His part 
Upon this battle-field of earth, 

And not sometimes lose heart. 

“ Thrice blest is he to whom is given 
The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field, when he 
Is most invisible. 

“ Blest, too, is he who can divine 
Where real right doth lie. 

And dares to take tlie side that seems 
Wrong to man’s blindfold eye. 

“ Then learn to scorn the praise of men. 

And learn to lose with God ; 

For Jesus won the world through shame, 

And beckons thee His road.” 

— Faber. 

The lord of the manor, or squire of the district, lived at an 
old house between St. Sennen and the next village of St. 
Buryan. It was a rambling building, half castle, half 
manor house, standing in extensive grounds, in which the 
trees and shrubs were stunted and dwarfed by the cold 
winds of that exposed country. The garden was desolate 
and ill-kept, productive of more weeds than flowers. The 
proprietor-^xared only for hunting by day, and drinking 
by night. He was a fair specimen of the landlords of those 
times, neither better nor worse than most of them. In his 
temper he was fitful and uncertain ; he had been known 


The Squire and his Son. 


21 


to do kind actions sometimes to those in distress, but he 
could act harshly and unjustly too. He was not altogether 
innocent of the crime of encouraging the wicked system of 
wrecking. It was said that in his younger days he had 
warmly joined in it, and made large sums of money by the 
barbarous trade. Though occasionally seen in church, he 
laughed at religion, and if there was one thing he hated 
above all others, it was a Methodist; any one, man, 
woman, or child, it mattered not which, who was a follower 
of the abhorred John Wesley, and professed to live a 
strictly religious life, as that holy man enjoined, was 
obnoxious to him. But, like most men, however hardened 
and vicious they may be, he had one tender point in his 
heart, and that was his love for his only son. His wife 
had died soon after he was born, and from his infancy the 
father had devoted himself to this boy, his darling, his 
heir. No expense or trouble did he spare to provide him 
with all that could give him pleasure. The servants were 
ordered to obey, and even to anticipate, his wishes. He 
was a bold, high-spirited lad, loving to roam as a child ^ 
over the wild, breezy heaths which surrounded his birth- 
place, to scramble down the granite cliffs on to the sea- 
shore, to watch the boats tossing on the fierce waves, and . 
the rolling breakers as they dashed in clouds of feathery 
spray against the rocks. An old serv^ant of his father’s, 
one Roger Barlow, was entrusted with the charge of young 
Master Arthur Pendrean; from him he learned all the 
wild legends of the country, and became familiar with the 
stories of wrecks and wreckers told by the dwellers on the 
desolate coast. There was not a mine in the neighborhood 
whose deepest shaft he had not gone down ; he had been 
out with the fishermen in their boats from Sennen Cove ; 
had been present at hurling and wrestling matches; in 
fact, the lad was tlioroughly Cornish to the backbone. 


22 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


When he grew older he was sent to school at Truro, 
where he distinguished himself as a clever scholar, and as 
a thorough athlete. He had been known to thrash a boy 
nearly twice as big as himself, the occasion of the quarrel 
being, that the great boy had cruelly treated"a very , little 
boy whom Arthur had taken under his protection. He 
was the first in every game of strefngth and skill, but he 
was noble and generous, ever taking the side of the weak, 
and never tolerating injustice or oppression. 

During one of his vacations, while riding through a 
village in the neighborhood of his home, he came suddenly 
upon a large crowd. An elderly man of venerable aspect, 
with long silvery locks, was earnestly addressing a number 
of rough miners, fishermen, and farm-laborers, together 
with a multitude of women and children who were eagerly 
drinking* in his words. Arthur listened. He had heard 
his father very often speak about John Wesley and the 
Methodists, cursing and swearing as he mentioned them ; 
so the young fellow naturally imagined them to be a 
very evil and mischievous set of people, whose object was 
to stir up sedition and trouble in the country. He did not 
guess, therefore, the object of the meeting, and when he 
was told that the speaker was John Wesley, and that this 
was an assemblage of Methodists, he was not a little 
shocked to find himself in such company. However, as 
he was here, he thought he might as well stop and listen 
to what the man had to say ; he could tell his father all 
about it at dinner ; he thought it might amuse him, and 
possibly raise a laugh. Arthur’s religious opinions were 
of the crudest character. He had been taught his Cate- 
chism at school, he heard the Bible read at church when- 
ever he went there ; but as to listening to the sermon, he 
always followed the example of his father, and some of 
the small congregation, by composing himself to sleep 


The Squire and his Son. 


23 


when it began. It was literally now for the first time that 
he listened to the story of the Cross, as it fell in plain, yet 
eloquent, accents from that old man’s lips. He preached 
of repentance, of the world to come ; he told them of the 
love of Jesus towards mankind, how He had left His 
Father’s throne to come and dwell on earth, and then 
asked them to give their hearts to Him who had died on 
the Cross to save them. 

All this was new to Arthur; he might indeed have heard 
it before, but it had made no impression upon him. He 
was riveted to the spot ; he was obliged to remain till the 
sermon was over. 

The preacher had met with attention, on the whole, 
though there had been some slight interruption from a 
group of rude, savage-looking miners, not far from where 
Arthur was standing. As the old man proceeded, however, 
there were loud murmurs of disapproval from tftese men. 
They surrounded the preacher with angry gestures, threat- 
ening to seize him and drag him through a horse-pond 
close by. Others, on the contrary, stood up in his defence, 
and a quarrel seeemed imminent. Arthur, whose generous 
disposition always led him to take the weaker side, was 
the more disposed to do so now, t^ecause he had been 
impressed and touched by the old man’s words. There 
was something grand and brave too, he thought, in this 
feeble and venerable clergyman standing up to rebuke 
these wild, rude folk for their evil ways. His calm fear- 
lessness pleased him, and when one of the miners advanced 
to seize the preacher and carry their cowardly threat into 
execution, Arthur rushed forward with the intention of 
placing himself between the old man and his assailant; 
but at that moment he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, 
and turning round he perceived Roger Barlow, who, with 
an old servant’s freedom, exclaimed, “ Come away, Master 


24 The Watc/icrs on the Longships. 

Arthur, this is no place for you ; the squire would storm 
for an hour if he heard that you had been listening to the 
Methodists.” 

“ ril not leave this spot, Roger, till I have seen fair play,” 
said the boy boldly. “ Stop these fellows from ill-treating 
that old man, and then Til go with you at once.” 

Roger, whose sympathies went with the Methodists, 
stepped forward. The crowd was quieted by threats, that, 
if a disturbance was made, the justices would interfere, 
and Mr. Wesley was allowed to depart quietly. 

But the story, a few days after, reached the squire’s ears ; 
at once he fell into a violent passion. He sent for his son, 
and with a volley of oaths and curses (too common, alas ! 
in those days among the upper classes of society), told 
him that if he ever went near the Methodists again he 
would disinherit him, and turn him out of doors to beg his 
bread. His hatred of religion seemed then even stronger 
than his love for his son. 

Arthur did not make any reply to his father’s angry 
words. When he found that his silence only irritated the 
old man, he told him that pure accident had brought him 
to the spot, and that a sense of honor and fairness had 
made him stand up to protect the weak against the 
strong. 

Neither threats nor entreaties could extract from the lad 
a promise that he would never listen to the preacher again. 
The idea that his son might become a Methodist haunted 
the squire by day and night, caused him great trouble and 
vexation, and made him more violent and passionate than 
ever. All that he could hope was, that when the boy 
returned Tb school, he would forget the matter. Such, 
however, was not the case. Arthur’s heart had been too^ 
deeply impressed by what he had heard, the arrow of con- 
viction had shot home. He now studied his Bible dili- 



“ He sent for his son, and . . . told him that if he ever went near the 
Methodists again, he would disinherit him,” etc. — Page 24. 













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The Squire and his Son, 25 

gently, was attentive to the services of the church, and 
joined fervently in the prayers. He was as diligent in his 
studies and as fond of games as before ; but he was often 
laughed and jeered at by his schoolfellows for refusing to 
use or tolerate bad language, for being religious, and, in 
fact, he was actually called by the then opprobrious name 
of ‘‘Methodist.’’ 

The next vacation his father observed that his son’s 
manner was changed, and that his worst fears were realized. 
To him the most alarming symptom in Arthur was his 
regular attendance at the church service which was cele- 
brated, on alternate Sundays, at the three churches of St. 
Buryan, St. Sennen, and St. Levan, these three benefices 
being held in those days by one clergyman. Great as was 
the distance, and however wet and stormy the weather, 
Arthur might always be seen at his place in church, while 
his example drew others with him. In the week, too, his 
father discovered that he now and then attended meetings 
held in the village for reading the Bible and prayer. 
This made the squire furious, and he threatened to send 
his son away to London, or abroad, unless he returned To 
his senses, as he expressed it. In the midst of his rage 
Arthur went back to school for the last time. During the 
term a Confirmation, then a very rare event, was to take 
place at Truro. He was one of the candidates. Though 
the preparation he received was very different from that 
given in these days, and defective in many ways, yet 
Arthur derived the greatest benefit from the sacred rite ; 
fresh grace and renewed strength for the battle which in 
Holy Baptism he had been pledged to fight being then 
vouchsafed to the faithful young soldier and servant of 
Christ. 

He now made up his mind to seek Holy Orders, and 
do his best in that dark age to make the knowledge of 


26 T]ic Watchers on the Longs hips. 

God and of the Saviour known to the rude miner and 
fisher folk of his native county. 

Arthur was between sixteen and seventeen when he left 
school. He told his father boldly that he wished to go to 
Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The 
grief and indignation with which the squire heard this 
announcement may well be imagined. At first he refused 
his consent. He swore at his son, and used every term of 
contempt he could think of to express his wrath at the 
decision. He accused him of being lazy, cowardly, a weak 
milksop. Why did he not go into the army or navy? 
Had he no desire, like mqst young men of his age, to 
enjoy the gay life of London for a time? He would do 
anything for him he liked; — but that he should be a 
parson, the idea was repugnant to him in every way, he 
could not consent to it. 

But menaces, sarcasm, and ridicule were alike ineffectual. 
Arthur was firm in his decision. He was respectful and 
affectionate to his father, but he had the courage of his 
convictions — he would not give up his religion, nor his 
intention of serving God. 

He must now remain quietly at home, doing all the good 
that came in his way, till his father gave his consent for 
him to depart to the University. The boy had a hard 
time before him ; his faith and courage were severely put 
to the proof. The squire had constantly parties of his 
neighbors to dinner, and, as was then the custom, they 
rarely left the table sober ; but Arthur always retired from 
the room, amid the jeers and mockery of his father and 
his guests, before the drinking commenced. He bore all 
this meekl^ ind bravely, regarding it as a stern discipline 
to fit him for the future combats he saw he must engage in 
with the ungodliness everywhere around. He thought, 
too, of all his Blessed Master had endured for him, and 


TJic Squire and Ids Son. 


27 


amid these many trials he was peaceful and happy. He 
would often leave his father's table to repair, through 
storm and rain, to one of the villages, or to a solitary 
cottage, to read the Bible to some lonely sufferer on a 
sick-bed, or join with a few of the awakened miners or 
fishermen in the reading of God's Word and prayer. He 
prayed constantly that his father's heart might be touched, 
that he might relent at last and grant his wish. God 
heard his prayer, but in a way he little expected. The 
squire was taken seriously ill, his life wa3 despaired of. 
Arthur never left his father's bedside, he waited on him 
with tender and affectionate care. At first the old man was 
surly and morose towards his son, swearing at him as usual, 
and constantly reminding him that he had blighted his 
dearest hopes, and caused him bitter disappointment by his 
ob«?tinacy and folly. Gradually, however, Arthur's love, 
self-sacrifice, and unremitting attention began to make an 
impression on the squire's hard heart. As he grew weaker 
and more dependent on his son, the old affection for 
him, — the one soft point in his character, — returned ; he 
felt that he had acted harshly and unjustly, and that he 
was not worthy of all this love and devotion now lavished 
upon him. He spoke: more kindly to Arthur now, and 
when, through his tender nursing, he began to grow 
stronger, he confessed to him, with tears in his eyes, that 
he felt he had been wrong, that he might have his way 
now, and go to Oxford if he wished. He^ never should 
like his being a parson, but if nothing else would satisfy 
'him, he must give his consent. 

For Arthur that was a doubly happy day, for not only 
with returning health was his father's former affection for 
him restored, but the one earnest wish of his heart was at 
last about to be satisfied, his prayer was heard and answered. 
Fervently did he thank God that night for His mercy and 
goodness towards him. 


28 The Watchers on ihc' Longships, 

A few months after he bade farewell to his father, who 
had now completely recovered, and started for Oxford. 
Here he studied with diligence and industry, — not that 
there was any necessity for exertion to obtain a degree, for 
examinations were in those days made so easy that any 
could pass them. Arthur led a quiet, studious life, asso- 
ciating with the very few young men who were like-minded 
with himself. Occasionally they were exposed to jeers, 
mockery, and even persecution ; for anything savoring of 
Methodism, as all earnest religion was styled in those days, 
was most unpopular, not only with the under-graduates 
but with the authorities of the University. Only a few 
years before six students had been expelled by the Vice- 
Chancellor because ‘Hhey held Methodistic tenets, and 
took on them to pray, read, and expound the Scripture in 
private houses ” — such was the toleration of that age. 

After a residence of between two and three years at 
Oxford, Arthur took his degree and returned to Cornwall. 
His father had given his promise, and he was not a man who 
would go back from his word, — still he did all in his power 
to dissuade his son from taking Holy Orders. He pictured 
to him the life of ease and independence before him, 
when, after his death, he should succeed to the estate ; he 
offered him money to travel, — in short, promised to gratify 
any wish he might express if he would only abandon his 
long-cherished idea. He spoke to him of the folly of sac- 
rificing himself to a life which was regarded in those days 
almost as one of degradation by most people, and in which 
he would acquire neither fame nor profit. However, when 
he perceived that neither argument nor persuasion could 
shake his son^s firm determination to become a parson, he 
once more reluctantly gave way, and submitted to the inev- 
itable. 

There was very little difficulty in obtaining ordination in 


The Squire mid his Son, 


29 


those days. The old clergyman who held the three livings 
of St. Buryan, St. Sennen, and St. Levan, lecl an easy life, 
and did not trouble himself more than he was obliged to do 
in the fulfilment of his clerical duties. He baptized, mar- 
ried, and buried his flock ; he said the prayers once a 
Sunday at one of the churches in his charge, and preached 
one sevmon, a dry, moral essay, not always of his own 
composition , he celebrated the Holy Communion once in 
three months, as well as on Easter-day and Christmas-day. 
It never entered his head to visit the poor among his 
parishioners, though he was a frequent guest at the squire’s 
table, and shared his dislike to the Methodists. Master 
Arthur, with his zeal for religion, was quite a marvel to 
the old gentleman. He was a thorn in his side, too, for he 
asked him questions difficult to answer, and urged him to 
set on foot works of piety and benevolence in the parish 
of a troublesome nature, and subversive of that indolent 
ease in which he passed his days. 

Arthur’s ambition was to succeed Mr. Somers as rector 
o£ these united parishes, and during his lifetime to act as 
his curate. The latter proposal was not very palatable to 
the rector, but as the squire wished it, because he desired 
to keep his son near him, he had to give way, and Arthur 
was ordained at Exeter as his curate. 

The village of St. Sennen with the adjoining Cove became 
the special sphere of his labor, which had begun there about 
a year before the commencement of our story. There was 
not a cottage here that was not visited, not a man, woman, 
or child that Master Arthur — for he still went by that 
name — had not a kind word for ^ all in distress found in 
him a friend and helper. The only men who hated him 
were the wreckers, for he had, from the first, firmly set his 
face against their cruel and iniquitous way of life. He 
was determined, whatever it might cost him, to put a stop 


30 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


to it, and his pluck and daring were so well known that 
the men were always more or less alarmed, when at their 
wicked work of luring a vessel on the rocks, lest Master 
Arthur, well armed, and with a few trusty followers, whom 
he had warmly attached to him, should be down upon them, 
and suddenly bring to naught their projects. 

During the autumn, which had been a very stormy one, 
there had been more wrecks than usual. The absence in 
those days, not only of life-boats, rocket apparatus, and all 
those many skilful and benevolent means by which, now, 
lives are rescued from perishing at sea, but also of light- 
houses and light-ships round the coast, greatly increased 
the number of disasters, so that it did not need the evil arts 
of the wreckers to cause vessels to lose their reckoning, and 
to be dashed upon the rocks which skirt the Cornish coast. 
Sometimes driven by storms, sometimes bewildered and 
helpless through fogs, the hapless sailors returning from 
long voyages, when in sight of the beloved shores of England, 
perished in the waters without a hand being stretched out 
to save them. 

Within the last few years the minds of many charitable 
persons in England had been directed to this question, 
Arthur had long felt that something ought to be done to 
guide the mariner to safety, instead of luring him to destruc- 
tion, and that a lighthouse must be erected on some promi- 
nent point of that iron-bound and dangerous coast. 


Arthur's Plan. 


31 


CHAPTER III. 

Arthur’s plan. 

“ Then he and the sea began their strife, 

And worked with power and might ; 

Whatever the man reared up by day, 

The sea broke down by night. 

He caught at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at flow, 

And at his side by that same tide 
Came bar and beam also. 

For ah! his looks that are so stout. 

And his speeches brave and fair, 

He may wait on the wind, wait on the wa^re. 

But he’ll build no lighthouse there.” 

— J. Ingelow. 

When Arthur Pendrean was once fully convinced of the 
necessity of any project upon which he had set his heart 
he never rested till all the means in his power to carry it 
into execution had been employed. He succeeded in per- 
suading his father, who since his illness had become far more 
susceptible to kindly and benevolent impulses, that a light- 
house ought to be erected at some point on the coast. He 
had corresponded with shipowners in London, and in the 
large seaport towns of the kingdom, and the result at last 
was, that a wealthy merchant, who had lost several valuable 
ships and cargoes on the Cornish coast, determined to build 
a lighthouse near the Land’s End on the condition that the 
Government allowed him to levy a toll upon the shipping 
which passed it for a certain number of years. 


32 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


It is a wild but grand scene which surrounds the traveller 
who stands on the extreme point of the Land’s End, the most 
westerly spot in England. Behind him the rugged plain, 
strewn with great bowlders, with here and there bright 
patches of golden gorse ; on either side rise large granite 
cliffs of fantastic shape, advancing into the sea ; before him 
extends the vast Atlantic, its waves a mass of restless foam, 
dashing in clouds of snowy spray against the fringe of 
rocks which skirts the coast, and roaring with terrific sound 
in the dark and mysterious caverns beneath. Rather more 
than a mile from the Land’s End a lighthouse may now be 
seen, built on the largest of a cluster of rocks, the Cam Bras, 
and called the Longships. This building was in course of 
construction when our story CQinmences ; it owed its origin 
to Arthur’s endeavors, as well as to the enterprise of the 
merchant above alluded to. 

On a stormy winter afternoon two men were standing 
the Land’s End, gazing out to sea and watching the vessels 
as they sailed by, buffeted by the billows. One was a man 
between fifty and sixty, short, thick set, with dark features 
and forbidding aspect ; the other was much younger, probably 
about thirty ; he was tall and stalwart, fair-complexioned, 
but with a weather-beaten face. Both looked as if they had 
lived hard lives, exposed to storms, tempests, and dangers 
of every kind. They were dressed like fishermen, with high 
boots and sou’westers. The eyes of both rested on the rising 
walls of the lighthouse. 

‘‘ Ben,” said the elder, “ that lighthouse, if it is ever 
finished, will be our ruin. A curse on him who ever thought 
of building it ! ” * 

“ Hiatus Master Arthur Pendrean,” said his companion ; 
“ we heard nothing about it till he came among us.” 

“That’s what they call charity, taking the bread out of 
our ^mouths,” rejoined the other with an oath. 


Arthur's Plan. 


33 


It’ll never be finished, John,” was the reply; ‘‘look, 
every now and then, the waves cover it over altogether, so 
that nothing can be seen of it, and lately we have had such 
high winds they have not been able to get along with the 
works at all.” 

“ Don’t go and comfort yourself with any fancies of that 
kind, Ben. That lighthouse will be finished before next 
winter, I know ; look how steadily they worked all the 
summer, and though we have had worse weather than 
usual this autumn and winter, that there work has stood as 
firm as the rock on which it’s built. I had a good look at it 
last time I was round that way in my boat.” 

“ I wish a lot of our fellows would go and pull it down, 
some fine night, John,” said the other, “ I’ll be the first to 
join them.” 

“ Pull it down, man, why you’re a fool to talk of such a 
thing. If you’d only see’d it as I have ! Why, them there 
stones are all fitted and nailed and cemented one into 
another ; as I say, it’s as strong as the rock itself.” 

“ And when it is finished, John, who’s a going to live 
there, I should like to know ? There must be some one to 
keep the lamps lighted,” said Ben Pollard. 

“ Of course, there must ; and a nice life he’ll have of it. 
Why, there’s such a roaring and a raging of the sea, even 
in calm weather, in the caves underneath them rocks that 
you can scarcely hear yourself speak, however loud you 
shout ; and I should like to know how that there light- 
housekeeper’ll get his food. Sometimes it’s a week at a time 
before any boat can get near the rock and there’s not many 
of our Sennen folk that’ll take any great trouble to go out 
and help him. He’ll starve perhaps, and a good job, too,” 
he said, with a malicious laugh. 

“Not so sure of that, John; there are three or four of 
our men’s heads already getting turned by that young, 


34 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


rascally Methodist, Pendrean, Look at Owen Tresilian, 
for instance.” 

‘‘ I tell you what it is, Ben,” said the other, and an 
expression of bitter hatred passed over his repulsive 
features ; “ if there’s any one on earth I owe a grudge to, 
it is to that Tresilian. He was bad enough before his wife 
died, but since her death he’s become a regular out-and-out 
Methodist ; he used to wink at smuggling, and I have 
known him have a hand in it, too, on the sly ; but now I 
believe if he had the chance he’d peach about it, and get us 
into trouble.” 

Twice, I know, John, he profited by a wreck.” 

Yes ; and IT not forget that against him, should it be 
convenient.” 

“ He’s become lately Master Arthur’s right-hand man, 
John ; and as to that boy of his, why he’s always with that 
young fool of a parson.” 

“ We’ll pay them both off some day. I have got another 
plan in my head, Ben,” said the elder man, with a chuckle. 
“ The lighthouse is not built yet, and we may still have 
some fine wrecks before the winter’s over.” 

‘‘ Hope we shall, John, for business has been very slack 
of late.” 

These two men, John Nichols and Ben Pollard, were 
probably the worst characters and the most daring wreckers 
in the neighborhood. They, associated with others, had 
carried on their wicked traffic for many years with great 
success, but it did not follow that they were at all comfort- 
ably off in. consequence. All the gains of these men were 
no sooner made than they were spent in drinking and 
gamblingT^ John, as the older, was the more hardened of 
the two ; he had led a wild, desperate life, both in England 
and abroad — a life stained with mapy crimes of the blackest 
dye. Ben, on the contrary, had never^left his native village ; 


Arthur's Plan. 


35 


he had a cottage at Sennen Cove, and was a married man 
with a young family, who, owing to his recklessness and 
selfishness, lived in extreme misery and want. 

It may well be imagined how obnoxious to such men was 
*the prospect of the erection of a lighthouse on the Long- 
ships. That it would decrease their gains there could be 
no doubt ; that it would be the means of saving life, they 
were too selfish, too unfeeling, to take into consideration ; 
they cared for no one but themselves. They, and in fact 
the majority of the men in the village, were bitterly incensed 
against Arthur Pendrean, not only because he was the 
originator of the lighthouse scheme, but because he never 
hesitated boldly to remonstrate with them upon their evil 
manner of life, and frequently urged them to amend their 
ways. Then they had another grudge against him, for his 
earnest, hearty manner, his thorough kind-heartedness and 
genuine sympathy, had already won over a few of the men, 
who had begun to lead honester and steadier lives. Arthur’s 
position, not only as the parson, but also as the squire’s 
son, prevented them from treating him openly, as they 
would have done, had they dared. They knew, too, 
that this young parson was not a man to be trifled with ; 
many of them, when they were boys together, had felt the 
weight of his arm, and there was not a man in the village 
who did not wince before the calm, stern glance of his eye. 
He could manage a boat as well as any of them in a squall, 
he knew how to haul in the lines, and could handle an oar 
perhaps with greater skill and power than any man along 
the coast. From a boy he had grown up with the fisher 
folk, and now, as a man, he was still not ashamed to join 
them on their cruises, and took as deep an interest in these 
expeditions as if his own livelihood depended on their suc- 
cess as much as theirs did. Not a cottage in the place the 
inside of which he had not seen ; not a man, woman, or 


36 The Watchers on the Longships. 

child whose name he did not know, as well as the whole 
history of their lives. 

With the Tresilian family Arthur had long been on inti- 
mate terms. He was absent when Ellen Eresilian died, 
having gone to Plymouth to further his lighthouse scheme, * 
but on his return he did all he could to help and comfort 
Owen and his motherless children. To Philip he showed 
special kindness ; he took deep interest in the boy, employed 
him, when he was not out at sea with his father, in various 
ways, and took care that, during the whole winter which 
followed the mother’s death, the family should not suffer 
from want. He would often go and spend an hour with 
them in the evening, reading the Bible aloud while father 
and son mended their nets and Mary busily plied her 
needle ; then he would tell them stories, too, that he had 
read in other books, or that had been told him — tales of 
heroism and adventure, of brave deeds done by bold men 
in bygone ages and other lands. 

Arthur often discussed with Owen his lighthouse project. 
From the first, the latter had favored the scheme, for his 
experience proved to him how many gallant vessels might 
by its means avoid shipwreck, and thus valuable prop- 
erty and precious lives be preserved. He, too, had 
helped with his advice, when the survey was made, to 
determine which was the fittest spot for the erection of the 
building; with Arthur and others in his boat, they had 
thoroughly explored the Longships, and came to the 
conclusion that, though the undertaking would be an 
arduous and tedious one, yet that by perseverance it might 
be accomplished, and that, for the benefit of the shipping 
interesT; 4 he Cam Bras rock was the most, suitable site for 
the lighthouse. 

Owen’s advocacy of a plan which was so unpopular with 
ihe inhabitants of the whole district, naturally, as we 


Arthur's Plan. 


37 • 

have seen, made him more hated than ever by the majority 
of his fellow-villagers. All possible means were devised to 
vex and annoy him. He had a hard life of it now. The 
light of his home had gone out, and he had far more to bear 
than formerly from the jeers and scoffs of those with whom 
he must daily associate out of doors. Now, too, he had no 
good wife, ever ready with comforting words to welcome 
and cheer him when he came back at night sad and cast 
down. Still, little Mary did all in her power to make up 
to her father for his loss ; Philip, too, was a good and 
dutiful son, and had, poor boy, quite as much persecution 
and ridicule to put up with from the lads of the village as 
his father had from the men. 

More than a year had passed away since Ellen Tresilian 
had been laid in her grave. As we have gathered from the 
conversation of the two men at the Land’s End, business 
had been slack during the winter, which meant that the 
wreckers had not been so successful as usual, and that the 
smuggling trade had, owing to sharper look-out on the part- 
of the coast-guard authorities, not been very brisk. 

Philip was growing up a strong, smart lad, and a great 
help to his father in his fishing. They were often out from 
early morn till long after sunset in their boat, occasion- 
ally, indeed, they had been absent all night, but it was 
only through unavoidable circumstances that this occurred, 
as Owen never liked to leave Mary quite alone in the 
cottage by herself. She, however, did not mind it in the 
least. She was never afraid; she would get her father’s 
and brother’s supper ready for them, put dry clothes for 
them to change ( if they came in wet) before the fire ; then 
she would read out of the big Bible, and, if they did not 
come by nine o’clock, she would say her prayers, and, asking 
God to watch over and protect them from the dangers of 
the sea, she would go quietly to bed, and soon fall asleep. 


• 3'^ tellers on the Longs hips. 

If the wind howled much, and the rain beat against the 
window panes, she would feel somewhat anxious about them, 
and pray more earnestly to God to guard them. Once, 
indeed, when they were out for two nights running, when 
she knew that the wind had changed and a gale had come 
on, the poor child was alarmed, her courage quite gave way, 
and she sobbed and wept as if her heart would break. All 
the second night she lay awake, and when, early in the 
morning, her father and brother appeared, they found her 
looking very pale, and her eyes red and swollen with 
weeping. Owen assured her that never, if he could help 
it, should this occur again. 


39 


Philip and his Foes. 


CHAPTER IV. 

PHILIP AND HIS FOES. 

“ Whom He hath blessed and called His own, 

He tries them early, look and tone, 

Bent brow and throbbing heart ; 

Tries them with pain, dread seal of love, 

Oft when their ready patience strove, 

With keen o’ermastering smart.” 

— Keble. 

The day following the conversation between John Nich- 
ols and Ben Pollard, related in our last chapter, Philip 
Tresilian went down early in the morning to the beach to 
clean out his father’s boat, and get it ready for fishing, as 
Owen intended to start on a cruise in an hour’s time. 

The boy was accustomed to meet with annoyance from 
lads of his own age, so he was not surprised to be greeted 
on his arrival at the beach by jeers from some half dozen 
lazy young fellows who were amusing themselves by throw- 
ing stones into the water, and occasionally pelting each 
other with sand and shingle. Philip’s appearance was the 
signal for them all to turn upon him. “ Here comes the 
young Methodist ! ” shouted one, and the whole set imme- 
diately surrounded him as he walked quietly on to his boat, 
taking no notice of them, and making no reply to their in- 
solent speeches. 

He commenced busily mopping the inside of the boat, and 
preparing the tackle for fishing. But he was not allowed 
to do this in peace, for the boys had discovered an amuse- 


40 The Wafc/iers on the Longshijhs. 

merit which was most congenial to their feelings and tastes, 
and which consisted in flinging sand and dirt into the boat, 
so that it was utterly impossible for Philip to go on with 
his work of cleaning. The more he begged them to desist, 
the more active did they become in throwing the sand. 
While this was going on John Nichols sauntered down 
to the beach. He perceived what the boys were doing, and, 
by a malicious burst of laughter, encouraged them in their 
ill-natured proceedings. 

A lad who was a great deal bigger and stronger than 
Philip, a nephew of Nichols’, was the ringleader in the 
mischief. “Come on, boys,” he cried, “let’s pelt the par- 
son’s pet well, the fellow who sets himself up to be so 
much better than any of us.” A fresh volley of mud and 
sand was the answer to this appeal. 

“We’ll teach him that we’ve had enough of his fine 
airs,” he continued; “he’ll grow up a regular coward, like 
his fool of a father ! ” 

“Who dares to call my father a coward?” exclaimed 
Philip, starting up from the boat, and gazing at the mock- 
ing faces before him. 

“Oh! he’s found his tongue at last, has he, the young 
rascal I ” cried Bill Nichols ; “ why, I call your father a 
coward ; he’s afraid to go wrecking now because of the par- 
son ! ” 

“You dare say that again,” said Philip, springing out of 
the boat, and standing in front of his insolent adversary in 
an attitude of defiance. 

“ Dare say it again, indeed. Your father’s a coward, and 
a fool, and so are you.” 

Philip’s^yood was up now. He was quite accustomed 
to bear any amount of insult and mockery which only con- 
cerned himself. The parson had often taught him that 
those who are trying to live a good, honest, true life, in the 


Philip and his Foes. 41 

midst of evil men, must endure such trials, and hard as 
they are for flesh and blood to bear ( and especially for 
young blood), still our blessed Master has by His life set 
us the example, and by His words enjoined us, “ Bless 
those that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray 
for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.’’ 
But to hear his father insulted — whom he had ever con- 
sidered the bravest of the brave, a man who had done 
honor to the British navy, and was reckoned one of the 
boldest seamen on the coast — that he should be called a 
coward and a fool to his son’s face. No — that was too 
much for any son to bear — he could not, he would not, 
stand it. 

He rushed upon Bill, who was quite unprepared for the 
assault, as he imagined the young Methodist, as he called 
him, would take any insult. His clenched fist fell heavily 
upon Bill’s eye, and then the fight began with fury. Bill 
was, of course, the stronger of the two, but Philip had 
gained some advantage by beginning the attack, and he 
made good use of it. All the other lads gathered round, 
cheering and encouraging Bill, his uncle, too, approached 
the combatants, and, of course, warmly espoused his 
nephew’s cause. 

Most of the lads, badly disposed as they were, had in 
them enough of an Englishman’s sense of fair play not to 
interfere in the struggle, though they bitterly regretted to 
see that Bill was plainly getting the worst of it. Not so, 
however, John Nichols. His hatred toward Owen Tre- 
silian and all his family was so inveterate that it blinded 
him to every other feeling, and extinguished any sentiment 
of honor which might still be lingering in his heart. When 
he perceived that his nephew would soon be prostrate on 
the beach, and Philip completely victorious, he was cowardly 
enough to interfere by dealing Philip a blow from behind. 


42 The 'WatcJiers o// /he LoigsJiips. 

which sent him reeling on to the ground, where he lay bleed- 
ing and unconscious. The cheer which rose from the by- 
standers at this new turn of events was a very faint one, 
for now the majority sympathized with Philip, who was, in 
fact, regarded as the victor. A cowardly act, even if success- 
ful, is never applauded, except by the most degraded. 
“That ain’t fair,” shouted four or five of the boys, “that’s 
a shame, John Nichols!” 

But another spectator, who had only arrived in time to 
witness the final act in this drama, at this moment inter- 
fered. He was no other than the young parson himself, 
whose tall and manly figure now advanced into the thick of 
the fray. • 

“What mischief are you up to here?”-Jie demanded, 
sternly. “How many — five, six, seven, against one — 
eight, and the last, a full-grown man, too. What, you, 
John Nichols! and it was you I saw deal the boy the blow 
which has laid him there unconscious ; a cowardly act,” he 
continued in a tone of withering contempt. “I should 
say you ought to be ashamed of yourself if I thought you 
had any shame left in you.” 

The boys hung their heads and skulked away without 
saying a word. Arthur then turned towards Nichols, who 
winced beneath his gaze. He went up close to the man, 
his vigorous frame so quivering with indignation, and such 
fire in his eye, that the ’miscreant really trembled; he did 
not know what was coming next. “John,” said Arthur, 
as he laid his hand heavily on his shoulder, “ this kind of 
thing shall not go on here; I’ll not have the lives of 
steady men and lads made miserable by you and a lot of 
lazy drinking fellows, who only gain their livelihood by 
robbing and murdering others. I have marked lately how 
Tresilian and his son have been set upon by you and your' 
set. But this shan’t go on, I can tell you, for I’m deter- 


Philip and his Foes. 43 

mined to see justice done, and, if all other means fail, i 
must call in the law to help me. Are you really lost to all 
sense of shame, John? don’t you feel that you acted like 
a coward in striking yonder boy ? ” 

“ I wish parsons would mind their own business, and 
leave poor folks alone to get their bread as best they can,” 
grumbled John Nichols, as with a scowl of bitter hatred, 
he turned away from Arthur, and hastened up the 
village. 

The young clergyman, with a heavy sigh, then went up 
to Philip, who still lay senseless on the ground ; he raised 
him up, placed his head upon his knees, wiping the blood 
off his face and whispering kind words into his ear. The 
boy soon opened his eyes, and smiled when he saw the 
loved and well-known face which was bending over him. 

“Oh, sir!” he said in a faint voice, “is it you?” You 
will forgive me, won’t you? It was wrong to fight, 
perhaps, but then Bill called father a fool and a coward, 
and I could not stand that, indeed. He called me bad 
names enough before, but I didn’t say a word till he called 
father a coward.” 

“Well, my boy, I mustn’t blame you, for I can’t say what 
I shouldn’t have done myself had I been provoked as you 
were. May God forgive you ; but you are terribly bruised 
and knocked about, poor lad — ah! here comes your 
father, this will be another sore trial to him, who has 
already so many to bear.” 

Owen, who knew nothing of what had taken place, was 
quietly coming down the beach, prepared to set out with his 
son on his fishing cruise. He started back with terror 
when he saw the parson sitting on the beach, with Philip’s 
bleeding head resting on his shoulder. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Owen,” Arthur called out to him, 
“ matters might be much worse, A lot of young rascals 


44 J Watchers 07i the Longs hips. 

set upon poor Philip, some seven or eight against one, and 
of course he got rather the worst of it.” 

“No, sir,” interrupted Philip, starting up and forgetting 
his pain, “ no, sir, I got the best of it. I had thrashed Bill 
well, and should have got him down in another minute 
if his uncle hadn’t given me that blow from behind, on my 
head, which knocked me down senseless.” 

“Come, let’s hear all about it, Philip,” said his father, 
sadly and anxiously. 

Philip related in a few unvarnished words all that had 
occurred. 

“You’re a brave boy,” said Owen, “and I’m proud of 
you. I thank you, sir, too,” he continued, turning to 
Arthur, “for if you hadn’t have come just at the right 
time, and interfered, they might have killed the lad — set 
of cowards that they are.” 

“That they are, indeed, Owen,” said Arthur, “but you 
had better take Philip home now to his sister. I don’t 
expect he’ll be fit for any work, or to go out fishing with 
you, for a day or two.” 

“Oh! I’ll soon be all right again, father,” said Philip, 
cheerfully; “black eyes soon get well.” 

“I want to say a few words to you, Owen,” said Arthur; 
“ if you go back with Philip to your cottage, I will wait 
here till you return.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied Owen, who now turned home- 
wards with his son, leaving the young clergyman sitting 
alone on the beach. 

The scene of which he had just been a witness had filled 
Arthur’s breast with sad and gloomy feelings. Even the 
most sanguimLare at times discouraged, and Arthur, in all 
the pride and vigor of youth, with, his naturally cheerful 
disposition, was in the habit almost always of looking on 
the bright side of things. But now he felt utterly cast 


Philip and his Foes. 


45 


down and disappointed. For more than a year he had been 
laboring among these people ; he had tried in everyway to 
influence them for good ; he had lived among them, shared 
their joys and sorrows ; affectionately, but solemnly, endea- 
vored to impress upon them how sinful and evil was their 
manner of life, which must, if unrepented of, bring a curse 
upon them in the next world, if not in this. He had 
drawn upon himself insults, mockery, even hatred. Not- 
withstanding this unworthy requital, he earnestly loved 
their souls, he longed that these poor ignorant, misguided 
men, cruel and brutal as many of them were, should be led 
to see their sin and turn to that Saviour whose arms are 
ever open to welcome the vilest and most degraded. But 
how few as yet had been impressed, while the majority 
appeared more hardened and defiant than ever. He was 
brooding over these melancholy thoughts when Owen came 
back and stood beside him. The first words the sailor 
uttered spoke with some degree of consolation to the young 
clergyman’s troubled heart. 

Ah, sir,” he said, “ I have had trouble enough since 
my poor wife’s death in one way and another, and particu- 
larly from the ill-will these fellows round here bear to me 
and my boy. But you, sir, help us all to bear the burden 
God lays upon us. I always feel thankful that He sent 
you to us just at the right time.” 

“ I am glad to hear that I have been of use to any one, 
Owen,” said Arthur, sadly. “ I was just thinking, when you 
came up, how little good I have been able to do here ; it 
seems as if nothing could touch the hard hearts of the folk 
around us.” 

“ Don’t say so ; you haven’t been here overlong yet. 
Besides, don’t forget all the good you’ve done to me and 
Philip and to my little one up yonder ; you’ve taught us all 
very much, sir, and we shall always be grateful to you for it.” 


46 


The Watchers 0)i the Longships. 


“ Have I, Owen ? Then Til thank God and take courage ; 
yes, I have been wrong to despond ; it is sinful to mistrust 
Him who hitherto has helped me on, and answered so 
many of my prayers ; only I do long to see more fruit of 
my labors.’^ 

That you will, sir, in time, I am sure,” said Owen. 
“ Only last night little Mary was reading to me out of the 
Psalms a verse which often comes into my mind when 
I feel low-spirited, ‘O taste and see that the Lord is 
gracious : blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.’ ” 

A good lesson, indeed, Owen ; God seems to have sent 
you to cheer me up just at the right moment. Yes, we will 
trust Him, and then we shall never be confounded.” 

They were silent for a few moments, then Arthur con- 
tinued, — 

‘‘ But now, Owen, what I wanted to speak to you about 
was my scheme of the lighthouse. That you know has a 
great deal to do with my being so unpopular with the Sennen 
folk, and all the men round the coast ; still I feel I am right 
about it, and no power on earth should make me desist 
from carrying out the plan ; and, if God permit, the light- 
house will be finished this summer. The work, I am thank- 
ful to say, has bravely stood all this winter’s gales, and be- 
fore the long dark nights of autumn, I hope to have the 
satisfaction of seeing a bright light burning on the Long- 
ships, to warn all mariners how near they are to a dangerous 
coast. But you know some one must live in that lighthouse, 
the lamps can’t be kept burning without hands, and the 
man who takes up his abode there must be honest, steady, 
and thoroughly trustworthy, above taking a bribe, able to 
bear the scorri, mockery, and annoyance which he is sure to 
meet with from the Sennen people, who, of course, will 
regard him as an enemy. The salary will be good, but the 
life will be — I can’t conceal it — a very hard and trying one. 


Philip and his Foes. 


47 


For days, perhaps for weeks, there may be no means of com- 
municating with the shore, so the lighthouse must be well 
stored with provisions. Then, too, it will be a lonely life, 
and one not unattended with danger, for the strongest 
building might yield before some tempest of unexampled 
fury, as the Eddystone did in the great storm at the begin- 
ning of the century. It will be a life of peril as well as of 
discomfort to the man who consents to accept the office, at 
the same time it will be a noble life of sacrifice for the 
welfare of others.’’ 

“Yes, sir; a man who undertakes to live on the Long- 
ships’ Rock would be doing a great service to his country- 
men, and especially to the shipping interest. I believe if 
there had been a lighthouse there hundreds of vessels 
would never have gone to the bottom ; but a dismal life 
that’ll be for any man, and especially if he’s to live there 
all alone.” 

“ I don’t think a man ought to live there all alone, Owen ; 
but it seems to me there’s no chance just now of finding 
two men who would go there. I doubt if we shall get one ; 
moreover, I don’t know whether Mr. Smith would provide 
a salary for two.” 

“ The lighthouse-keeper, whoever he is, won’t get much 
help from the Cove men, sir. They’ll lead him a pretty 
life,” said Owen. 

“ They can’t do him much harm out there, Owen ; they can 
only annoy him when he comes on shore for his provisions ; 
and means must be taken to insure that he is protected 
from anything like violence. Well now, Owen, to come to 
the point, I want to know if you will be the lighthouse- 
keeper ? ” 

“ Ah, sir, I thought that was what you were driving at ; 
but that’s a matter which requires consideration. It will, 
as you say, be a very hard and a very lonely life, and then 


48 The Watchers on the Longships: 

I should have to give up my cottage, which I am fond of, 
and what would become of Philip and little Mary ? They 
couldn’t go and live in the lighthouse.” 

“ I don’t want to hurry you to decide, Owen ; it will be 
months before the lighthouse is finished, and you shall 
have plenty of time to think over the matter. I’ve considered 
the objections I knew you would raise about your children, 
and all the difficulties in the way ; but who else can I find 
here ? there’s no one I can thoroughly rely upon except 
you. There are, indeed, one or two fellows who are honest 
enough, and seem to be trying to mend their ways ; but they 
all have large families, and I could not depend upon them. 
Think, Owen, of the good you will be doing, try not to shrink 
from making a sacrifice, which will confer such great benefits 
on mankind. Remember Him who loved you with so 
deep a love that He came from heaven to die for you on 
the Cross — there is the noblest, most glorious example of 
self-sacrifice for .you to follow. Dreary and lonely as your 
life on the rock may be, what can it be in comparison with 
His, when He left His Father’s throne to dwell on earth 
to suffer and to die for us sinners ? ” 

‘‘Yes, sir, I quite feel all you say; but you see there’s 
Marv, — she never would be separated from me, she’d fret 
so, poor child, brave and good as she is. Why, once when I 
was out two nights running, she was so frightened, poor 
thing, fearing Phil and I were drowned, that it made her 
quite ill.” 

“ I could get her a comfortable berth where she would 
be well taken care of up at my father’s place, Owen. I 
thought of all that, I knew Mary would be the difficulty in 
your way?^ As to Philip, my idea was that he could go and 
live in the lighthouse with you for the first winter, till you 
got accustomed to being there alone. But there's no need 
to come to any decision now ; only don't say a word about 


Philip and his Foes, 


49 


it to anybody, for if the fellows here thought you were 
going to be the lighthouse-keeper they wouldn’t give you 
much peace, I’m sure.” 

‘‘I believe my life wouldn’t be worth much if they did,” 
said Owen. To hear the way they talk about the lighthouse 
you’d think it had been built on purpose to prevent them 
getting their living, and to drive them to starvation. They 
threaten often that they will never allow the lamp to be 
lighted, and breathe vengeance against the man who is 
appointed to live there.” 

All the more reason they should know nothing about 
our plan then, Owen,” said Arthur, “ and now farewell ; I 
shall come and see how Philip is getting on to-morrow.” 


50 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


CHAPTER V. 

A PLOT. 

Not one can say he’s safe — 

Not one of you so humble, but that still 
The malice of some secret enemy 
, May whisper him to death — and hark, look to it ! 

Have some of you seemed braver than their fellows, 

Their courage is their surest condemnation.” 

— Taylor, Philip Van Artevelde. 

Philip soon got over the effects of the affray with his 
tormentors, and as usual accompanied his father on his 
fishing cruises. His pluck and courage had gained him the 
respect of the lads of the village, who had moreover been 
disgusted with Nichols for his interference, and Philip was 
now not nearly so much molested as hitherto. 

It was a fine spring, there was a plentiful harvest of 
pilchards, and the walls of the lighthouse continued to make 
steady progress. There was no doubt that by September 
the building would be completed. 

The violent opposition which its erection had created 
was not in the least abated, but rather increased as the 
work progressed ; and Arthur, as the originator of the 
scheme, was more and more hated by the lazy and evil- 
disposed^f the Sennen people. 

In these days of peace, liberty, and prosperity we can 
hardly realize how different the condition of this same 
England was some ninety years ago. The nation then was 
constantly at war, rebellions and mutinies were fretjuent ; 


A Plot-. 


SI 


there was not that security for life and property which 
exists at present, yet the penal laws were so harsh and 
severe that they might almost be said to have been written 
in blood ; it was death then to steal to the value of five 
shillings, and in 1785 ninety-seven persons were executed 
in London for theft alone. There was great difficulty at that 
time in obtaining a sufficient number of men to serve in the 
Army and Navy, and the Government was obliged to resort 
to means which, interfering as it did with the liberty of the 
subject, was hard and grievous enough then, but would 
never be endured now. Men were impressed for both 
services, and press-gangs, as they were called, would, with 
the sanction of the authorities and on board Government 
cruisers, sail round the coast, land at various seaport towns 
and villages, and carry off by force young men and lads 
of sixteen or seventeen to serve on board His Majesty’s fleet. 
Money or influence could often obtain protection or release 
for the unfortunate victims, but when neither the one nor the 
other were forthcoming, the poor fellows were dragged from 
their homes, and often from a calling in which they were 
earning an honest livelihood^ and forced for years into un- 
willing service. 

The men who composed these press-gangs were often a 
drunken, ruffianly set ; in many places they were used by 
bad and malicious persons as a means of paying off old 
scores against their enemies, and not a few instances 
could be given in which young men had been pointed out 
to the press-gang as eligible for their purpose by those 
whose interest it was to get rid of them. Men who made 
themselves obnoxious to their ungodly neighbors, by living 
pure and honest lives, and doing the best in their power to 
urge others to abandon their wicked ways, were frequently 
denounced to press-gangs, and carried off to be soldiers and 
sailors, The poor Methodists, as they were called, were 


52 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

very often pressed ; and at this time, in Cornwall, not only 
along the coast, but in the interior, several press-gangs were 
going their rounds. 

One evening in May several of the worst characters in 
Sennen were sitting together drinking in the public-house, 
among them our previous acquaintances, Ben Pollard and 
John Nichols. The conversation soon turned on the 
favorite topic of the lighthouse on the Longships’ Rock, 
which every day was exciting fresh opposition and ill-will. 

“I tell you what it is, mates,’’ said John, “our trade is 
pretty nigh done for, unless we can put a stop to the build- 
ing of that lighthouse. I’m told the whole affair’s as good as 
settled now, and Mr. Smith has got permission from the 
Government to levy a toll on shipping as passes this way, 
to pay for the expenses of the lamps and lighthouse- 
keeper.” 

“ I see no help for us,” said another man. “ Ever since 
Master Arthur took it into his head to become our parson 
there’s been little chance of us poor fellows gaining a living.” 

“ I don’t see that we should submit to this tamely,” 
protested Ben ; “ we should show them that there’s some 
spirit left in us, and that we’re not agoing to he ruined by 
all their arts and devices.” 

“ I should like to know what we can do, Ben,” replied 
John. “Haven’t we tried every way to stop the work — 
worried the workmen, stolen their tools, capsized their boats, 
and when some of us went the other night to reconnoitre — 
and landed on the Rock to see if we could destroy or injure 
the building — didn’t we find it so strong that there was no 
good making the attempt ? ” 

“ True'enough, John,” remarked another of the party, “ I 
say we can do nothing till the lighthouse is finished ; then 
we must drown the keeper and put out the lights.” 

“Yes, if we can,” said Ben ; “but I doubt it.” 


A Plot, 


53 


“ We’ll do our best,” exclaimed John, with a loud laugh ; 

we’ll show Master Arthur that we’re not such fools as to 
submit to all his whims and fancies without resistance. 
I’ve got an idea in my head, comrades, I want to talk to 
you about. You know I’ve long had a grudge against that 
sneaking fellow, Owen Tresilian.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” roared all the men, ‘‘ so have we.” 

“ I believe that he and his rascally son,” said Ben, “ are 
set by the parson to spy upon us and report to him all we 
say and do.” 

‘H’m sure of it,” said John, ‘‘and I’ve never forgiven 
that young rogue for the drubbing he gave my nephew Bill 
last winter.” 

“ A nice mistake you made, interfering as you did,” 
remarked one of the party; “lots of young fellows 
took Philip’s part after that, because he showed so much 
pluck, and you acted like a coward, they say.” 

“May be so, Jenkins, but it won’t last,” replied John, 

“ and I wasn’t going to see my own flesh and blood mauled ^ 
about by that young scoundrel ; but now, for what I was 
going to say when you interrupted me. — Look ye here, 
comrades, the press-gang’s a-coming our way ! ” 

“ The press-gang ? ” they all exclaimed. 

“Yes, sure enough. They’re hard up for men for the 
Navy, and there’s no chance of peace with the Frenchmen 
for many a long day, and the press-gang is cruising in a 
cutter round the coast. Only yesterday a friend of mine, 
just come from Pendeen, told me they had been there a 
day or two ago, and had carried off four young fellows. 
He said, too, they always took the Methodists by choice, if 
they could find them out.” 

“ Well, if they come here, it’s to be hoped they’ll carry 
off both the Tresilians, father and son,” said Ben; “that 
would be a good riddance.” 


54 


The Watc/icrs ou tJu' Longsliips. 

“ Not the father/' said John, “ he’s too old. They never 
take men much over thirty ; besides, he has served in the 
Navy already, and would get off on that score, but that 
drivelling young fool — his rascally son — I think we might 
get rid of him in that way.” 

‘‘ A very good thought of yours, John,” said one of the 
company. “ And when are we to expect the press-gang ? ” 
Why, any fine day their cutter may anchor off our bay. 
They’re at Pendeen now, and that ain’t far off. I mean to 
keep a sharp lookout for them, and have my eye on that 
Philip Tresilian, too; he shan’t escape, I promise you.” 

“ And we must be on the lookout to get out of the way 
ourselves when that cruiser comes,” said the youngest man 
of the party ; “ I don’t want to be pressed for the navy.” 

“ You will, if you don’t make yourself scarce, Ned,” said 
Ben, “ and I don’t feel at all safe myself. 1 believe, John, 
they’ll come after us all of a sudden in the night, and drag 
us out of our homes.” 

“ There’s no telling ; they may. But forewarned is fore- 
armed, and I have told you what to expect, so be on your 
guard ! ” 

We do not sully our pages with any allusion to the oaths 
and vile language which were thickly mingled in this con- 
versation. In those days swearing was fashionable among 
even the highest classes of society, and never absent from 
the everyday talk of the lower orders. Only those whose 
lives had been changed by the religious revival of the time, 
and had been taught to see its wickedness and profanity, 
abstained from blasphemous and impure language. 

The men delighted that an opportunity seemed likely to 
occur by which they could avenge themselves on Tresilian, 
now serrated, after agreeing that a keen watch should be 
kept on Philip’s movements, that he might be denounced 
to the press-gang as soon as they made their appearance. 


A Cornish Parson and his Work. 


55 


CHAPTER VI. 

A CORNISH PARSON AND HIS WORK. 

“ Think not of rest ; though dreams be sWeet, 

Start up and ply your heavenward feet, 

Is not God’s oath upon your head 
Ne’er to sink back on slothful bed, 

Never again your loins untie. 

Nor let your torches waste and die. 

Till, when the shadows thickest fall,. 

Ye hear your Master’s midnight call ? 

— Keble, Christian Year, 

The same evening, on which the conversation related in the 
previous chapter occurred, Arthur Pendrean had gone to pay 
Owen Tresilian and his family a visit. Plis main object 
was to have a talk with Philip on the subject of Confirma- 
tion. This sacred rite of the Church was thought very little 
of in those days. Bishops did not then visit all the towns 
and villages in their dioceses annually, as they do now, for 
the purpose of holding confirmations. They occurred then 
but rarely, and were held only in some large and central 
place in the county. In the coming autumn it was an- 
nounced that the bishop would hold a Confirmation at 
Truro. None could think of taking so long and expensive 
a journey who were not impressed with the importance of 
the ordinance, and very few in Sennen or its neighbor- 
hood thought anything about it. But Arthur was anxious 
that several young men and women who had been in- 


56 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

fluenced by his teaching should be confirmed at this time. 
He meant to go with them himself, and send them at his 
own expense ; and, having already spoken to Philip on the 
subject, he wished that evening to converse with him more 
fully about it. 

Though, as we have related, Arthur Pendrean’s heart 
had been first touched by hearing the preaching of John 
Wesley, yet he was in no sense what would now be called 
a Methodist. That was a term of reproach applied in those 
days to all people who were striving to live a religious life. 
John Wesley himself was a thorough Churchman, and the 
separation of his societies from the Church after his death 
was far more owing to the apathy and worldliness of the 
Church dignitaries, who refused to recognize the move- 
ment, and to direct it into the ri^t channel, than to its 
reputed founder, who would otherwise have shrunk back 
from raising any opposition to a Church of which he had ever 
been a faithful and devoted son. Arthur, who deeply ven- 
erated the holy and truly apostolic man, from whose lips 
he had first heard the words of life, could not altogether 
agree with the exaggerated opinions taught by many of his 
followers, and was wholly opposed to those who had sepa- 
rated themselves from the Church of their baptism. But 
in his parishes there were none of these. Arthur’s ener- 
getic ana pious labors among the people, his zealous and 
constant preaching of the true and whole gospel, his visit- 
ing from hamlet to hamlet, and from house to house, the 
meetings he held for instruction, prayer, and the reading of 
God’s Word, supplied all the spiritual wants of the few 
who had been roused to care for higher things. The so- 
called IVfethodists were, in consequence, thoroughly at one 
with him, attended all his services, and assisted him by all 
the means in their power. 

He had during his residence at Oxford de\’oted much 


A Cornish Parson ajid his Work. 


57 


time to the study of theology, and especially to the doctrines 
and teachings of that branch of the Catholic Church to 
which he belonged, as expressed in the services and offices 
of the Prayer Book, the Articles, and the works of her 
greatest divines. He perceived how many good men of 
his day stopped short of the whole truth, and, by con- 
stantly inculcating the doctrine of justification by faith 
alone, neglected to enforce the necessity of good works, 
without which faith is dead, and also seemed entirely to 
overlook, not only the importance, but almost the very exist- 
ence of those two Sacraments ordained by Christ Himself, 
and which he has appointed as channels of grace. Both 
from Holy Scripture and the Prayer Book, Arthur had 
learned and felt the duty and importance of the consecra- 
tion of infancy to God ; but he saw as plainly how few 
there are who do preserve the innocence of childhood, 
and how necessary and all-important is the need of conver- 
sion. He recognized, too, — which few at that period 
did, — the solemnity and force of our Lord's injunction, 
“Do this in remembrance of me," and was shocked and 
pained to observe how in those days that command was 
utterly neglected, and how rarely the Blessed Sacrament 
of the Holy Communion was celebrated in the churches 
of England. 

Mr. Somers, the old rector of the three united parishes 
which Arthur served, did not at all concur in his views. 
All zeal he called Methodism, while his young and ener- 
getic curate looked upon John Wesley as his model, only 
differing with him so far that he disapproved of those 
measures which he had taken late in life, and which had 
caused his followers to separate from the Church of 
England. But, for the sake of peace, Mr. Somers left 
Arthur to do much as he liked, especially at St. Sennen ; 
he was glad to be spared a journey tncre every third 


58 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

Sunday, and he now confined himself mostly to the 
larger and nearer church of St. Buryan. There, however, 
and at St. Levan, too, Arthur’s influence was felt, for he 
generally managed to preach at both these churches once 
a month, besides diligently visiting the poor. 

St. Sennen Church stands on a bleak and elevated plain ; 
scattered round it are the few cottages which form the 
village. Externally the church presented no striking 
features, the roof being rather dilapidated, and the church- 
yard ill-kept and overgrown with weeds ; the interior was 
dismal in the extreme, but not worse, nor perhaps so bad, 
as many of the churches in England at that day. The 
walls were thickly covered with whitewash, here and there 
stained with dark green patches and streaks from the 
damp ; the paved floor was rough and broken, the window§ 
were filled with panes of very dirty glass, which had once 
been white, the stained glass having been broken and 
removed in Puritan times. The only ornaments were a 
rude mutilated figure of alabaster, possibly intended to 
represent the patron saint Senanus, of Irish celebrity, and 
a very large and gaily painted representation of the royal 
arms, the lion and unicorn, over the chancel arch ; the 
altar was a very shabby table, with a faded red baize cloth, 
the pulpit a huge unsightly wooden structure, painted a 
bluish-green, the high pews were allowed to remain in their 
original worm-eaten deal, though one or two of these were 
furnished with cushions and surrounded with curtains. At 
the west end of the church was a gallery for the singers, 
the balustrades of which were painted a very bright blue. 
There was no organ, but occasionally a bass-viol, a violin, 
and a couple of flutes were played by village musicians. 
Here and there in this dreary and depressing interior, in 
the arches and tracery of the windows, some remnant 
iniglit be seen of its original design, and of those graceful 


A Cor/iisk Parson and his Work, 


59 


proportions to which it has, at the present clay, been once 
more restored. 

This, then, was the building in which Sunday, after 
Sunday, Arthur Pendrean ministered to his little flock. 
Dismal as it was, with the winds often howling round it, and 
the rain and hail beating against the windows, yet he did 
his best to warm the hearts of his hearers, and to make 
the prayers and psalms a reality to them. The liturgy in 
which that little congregation of poor fisher folk united was 
the same, word for word* that we use now in our beautiful 
churches and cathedrals, where we have so much to help 
our souls to devotion and to add to the dignity of our 
worship. They joined in the same solemn litany, its peti- 
tions coming with special force to men whose calling led 
them to expose themselves for days and nights to the perils 
of the treacherous deep. Arthur, after he was ordained 
priest, had instituted a monthly celebration of the Holy 
Communion at St. Sennen, an unheard-of innovation ; even 
in a town, in those days, but very few gathered round the 
holy Table to partake of the Bread of life. Two or three 
women who were not ashamed to confess their Lord, and, 
perhaps now and then an old decrepit man, were generally 
the only communicants, but they gradually increased, for 
several in hamlets and solitary farmhouses around, who 
had been awakened by the preaching of the Methodist 
missionaries, and who were glad to welcome in Arthur a 
godly and pious minister, would walk to St. Sennen and 
join in its heart-stirring services. 

The singing at St. Sennen ’s Church, if not melodious, 
was warm and hearty. Arthur had a fine voice and always 
set the tune. John and Charles Wesley, and others, had 
written many hymns, which are now still universal favorites ; 
but hymn-singing, except Bishop Ken’s morning and even- 
ing hymns, was unheard of in churches at the period of 


The ]\\itc/iers on the Longships, 

which we are writing; and the metrical psalms to be 
found at the end of our old Prayer Books were used 
instead. 

Philip Tresilian, since his encounter with Bill Nichols, 
had become more popular with the lads of the village ; he had, 
consequently, been led to associate more with them than 
formerly, and to take part occasionally in their games and 
pastimes. This was but natural, and Arthur, who liked to 
encourage manly sports among the youths of his flock, had 
nothing to say against it, but he could not help observing 
with sorrow that Philip’s manner towards him was altered, 
especially when he accosted him in the company of his 
companions. He was beginning to get ashamed of his 
religion, and did not so boldly show his displeasure at the 
scoffs and jeers which were levelled at the parson and at 
the Methodists as he had been wont to do. Arthur had 
several times spoken to Philip about Confirmation, but he 
apparently did not relish the subject, for he always gave 
very short answers, or made an excuse to get out of his 
presence as quickly as possible. This evening, however, 
Arthur Pendrean found Philip alone, for his father and sister 
had gone to Sennen village, and left him to mind the cottage 
and repair some nets which were wanted for to-morro^V’s 
fishing. He had no means of escape, therefore, and must 
listen to all that the parson had to say. 

Philip,” he began, in a kindly voice, “ Tve come to have 
a talk with you on the subject I spoke to you about last 
week, when you said you were so busy you could not listen 
to me then, but would hear what I had to say another time.” 

‘‘ Oh yes, sir, I remember ; about my going to the bishop 
at Truro, ”-^eplied Philip; think, sir, I would rather 
not go at present.” 

‘‘Why not, Philip, you are quite old enough, I am sure, 
to be confirmed, between sixteen and seventeen now ; why 


A Cornish Parson and his Work. 


6i 


put off what ought to be done to a time that may never 
come ? ” 

“ I don’t just see the good of it, sir ; none of the lads 
about here are going to be confirmed, I fancy ; and it’s enough 
I have to bear now, being laughed at for going to church, 
and being with the parson so much ; and when it once gets 
to their ears that I am going to Truro to be confirmed, 
why, I shall never hear the end of it ; I shall be called a 
saint, and a Methodist, and all kinds of names.” 

I am sorry to find, Philip,” said Arthur solemnly, ‘‘ that 
you are becoming ashamed of your religion. You would not 
have spoken like this a year ago. It is not what your good 
mother would have expected of her son.” 

‘‘ I am not ashamed of my religion, sir, but I don’t want 
to put myself forward to be better than others, and thus 
make myself a laughing-stock. Why should 1 be confirmed 
when others are not ? ” 

Because they neglect their duty, should you do so, 
Philip ? Are you ‘ to follow a multitude to do evil ? ’ The 
very reason why I urge you to this sacred ordinance is, 
that you may therein receive fresh strength and renewed 
grace to resist those temptations which beset you, and to 
enable you boldly and manfully to confess your Lord and 
Saviour Jesus Christ.” 

Philip sighed, hut did not reply. Arthur continued, — 

“ I know, my lad, you have a great deal to bear, but I 
have seen, too, that you are beginning to waver in your 
allegiance to our great Master. You are not so bold 
as you used to be in standing up for what is right and good. 
You can listen to bad words without a shudder. It does 
not give you so much pain to hear religious people — - 
Methodists, as they are called — laughed at and spoken 
against. Is it not so, Philip ?” 

Philip reddened and kept his eyes fixed on his work. 


62 The Watchers 07 i the Longs hips. 

Come, answer me, my good fellow, is it not so ? said 
Arthur earnestly. 

‘‘Well, sir, I can’t say what isn’t true, so I must confess 
it is.” 

‘“If we confess our sins. He is faithful and just to 
forgive us our sins,’ as you hear every Sunday in church, 
Philip. I thank God that He has given you a conviction 
that all is not right in your heart. Think now how 
dangerous it is to begin to tread the downward path. 
Before it is too late, before you are led to commit some 
sin which may destroy your soul, stand up boldly and 
confess Christ ; and seek every means of grace which He 
has appointed to help you and strengthen you to walk 
in the right way.” 

“ I’m sure I try to do my best, sir ; I have not missed 
once to go to church on Sundays, and I can’t see the harm 
of having a game with the other lads of the village now 
and then.” 

“ I know, Philip, your place in church has never yet been 
empty ; but take care ; ‘ let him that thinketh he standeth take 
heed lest he fall ; ’ I should be the last to wish you to lead a 
morose and selfish life apart from your fellows, or to forbid 
you to join in their pastimes ; only remember when you take 
part in their games not to take part in their evil ways, too^ 
and not to let them think that you countenance their pro- 
fane language or dishonest deeds, but let them see plainly 
that you are a Christian and are not ashamed of being 
one. Be as bold to confess your Saviour as you were to 
resent the insult on your father’s name and character 
that day when I found you lying stunned upon the 
beach.” ^ 

Tears started into the lad’s eyes as he turned them . 
affectionately upon the young clergyman. “Oh, sir,” he 
said, witli deep emotion, “ I never can forget how kind you 


A Cornish Parsoji and his Work. 63 

were in coming to my rescue ; that brutal fellow Nichols 
might have killed or maimed me for life if you hadn’t 
appeared at the right moment. Yes, sir, I have been wrong. 
I am ashamed of myself, I am, indeed ; sometimes when the 
lads have said things against you, and called you names, I 
have let it pass and said nothing, and once I laughed ; 
and then I haven’t liked to speak to you when I have 
been in their company, and have felt vexed when you have 
talked to me. I have been very, very ungrateful, but I 
won’t be so again, sir; I won’t, indeed.” 

‘‘Philip, my dear boy,” said Arthur kindly, “don’t 
think about me, it isn’t much I have done for you, and for 
that little, I see by your looks, and hear by your words, 
that you are grateful. No, it is not man, but God, that you 
offend when you are ashamed to stand up for the right, 
and to confess that you are His. If you feel gratitude 
towards me who have done so little for you, what ought 
you not to feel towards Him who died to save you 1 Ah, 
Philip, in your baptism you were given to God as His 
child ; you were enlisted into His army ; it was then prom- 
ised for you that as His faithful soldier and servant you 
would fight manfully under His banner till your life’s end. 
Are you striving to keep that promise } Will you be a good 
and brave soldier in that great army of the living God, or 
will you be a coward and deserter ? ” 

“ I often feel, sir, that I have not strength to resist all 
the temptations I have to endure from companions I cannot 
always avoid. I pray to God to help me indeed, but now 
and then I have given way, and said and done what I have 
afterwards been ashamed of.” 

“ That is the very reason, Philip, why you should come 
to be confirmed, that you may obtain more strength for 
this daily conflict against sin and the great enemy of souls ; 
and still more help will be supplied you, if afterwards you 


64 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

receive prayerfully and worthily the Blessed Sacrament of 
our Lord’s Body and Blood.” 

I’ll think over what you have said, sir ; you have put 
these matters in a new light to me this evening ; but if, 
after being confirmed and taking the sacrament, I should 
do something wrong, be led away by the bad fellows 1 

must be with every now and then ” 

‘‘ If you pray to Him, God will give you His Spirit so 
that you will be able to resist temptation, however strong 
it may be. Remember you are enlisted in an army the 
final victory of which is absolutely certain, the great Captain 
of our salvation can never be defeated. Trust in Him 
only, look not to yourself but to Him ; ‘ Commit thy way 
unto the Lord, and put thy trust in Him, and He shall 
bring it to pass,’ says the Psalmist ; and further on in the 
same psalm is the comforting assurance, ‘ The Lord order- 
eth a good man’s goings, and maketh his way acceptable 
to Himself ; though he fall, he shall not be cast away, for 
the Lord upholdeth him with His hand.’ ” 

At that moment Owen and his daughter entered the 
cottage. After exchanging friendly greetings with them, 
and chatting for a few minutes with Owen about the fishing 
season and other matters, Arthur took leave of the family, 
telling Philip he would take an early opportunity of seeing 
him again and continuing their conversation. 


The Capture. 


65 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE CAPTURE. 

Thou who in darkness walking didst appear 
Upon the waves and Thy disciples cheer, 

Come, Lord, in lonesome days, when storms assail 
And earthly hopes and human succors fail : 

When all is dark may we behold Thee nigh. 

And hear Thy voice, — ‘ Fear not, for it is L’ ” 

The next day was Sunday. It was a glorious morning, 
not a cloud on the bright blue sky, the sea was smooth as 
a mirror, and it fell in the gentlest ripples on the shingly 
beach where all the fishing boats were drawn up ; as more 
from the force of habit, than from any sense of religion, 
the Sennen folk did not as a rule go out fishing on Sundays. 
Out in the offing lay a cutter at anchor. She had arrived in 
the night, and was recognized by those who were earliest 
astir in the morning as a revenue boat. On board her 
was the dreaded press-gang. 

Just as Arthur was about to ride to St. Sennen for morn- 
ing service, his faithful servant, old Roger, came up to him 
and said, — 

‘‘ I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with the press-gang on 
board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favorite 
day for those chaps to land ; they always find the men at 
home then, and so they are easier to catch. I thought I 
would warn you about it, sir, because their game now is to 
cariy^ off all the men and lads who are called Methodists ; 
so you had better tell some friends of ’ours to make them- 
selves scarce for the day.’' 


66 The Watcher'S on the Longs hips. 

“This is bad news, indeed, Roger,’’ said Arthur; “I 
knew a press-gang was in the neighborhood, but never 
thought of their coming our way. I will gallop down to 
Sennen Cove at once ; I shall have time to ride there and 
see what’s going on before service begins.” 

When Arthur arrived at the Cove he found everything 
as usual ; there lay the cutter, indeed, quietly at anchor ; a 
few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the beach 
were watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of 
those on board. To Arthur’s inquiries, they replied that 
no one had landed yet, and some asserted that there was 
no press-gang with the cutter, but that she was probably 
sent to look out for smugglers. Arthur left the beach and 
proceeded to church. 

Being so fine a day there was a larger congregation than 
usual. Philip, with his father and sister, was in his accus- 
tomed place. Arthur’s manner to-day was unusually grave 
and earnest. His long talk with Philip on the previous 
evening had left a melancholy impression on his mind. 
He felt that the few who were striving to do right, who 
had some faith in God and some Ipve towards their Saviour, 
were exposed to trials, temptations, and persecutions, 
which he feared lest they might not have strength to with- 
stand. For Philip he was specially anxious, and fervently 
had he that morning prayed to his Father in heaven to 
guide and protect the lad, and not suffer him to be tempted 
above what he was able to bear. Then this new cause of 
trouble, the idea of the press-gang coming down upon his 
flock, had filled him with alarm and apprehension. It was 
with difficulty that during the service he could keep his 
mind caln^ fixed on Him without whose permission not 
a sparrow falleth to the ground. Before the sermon he 
gave out a psalm which was a favorite both with himself 
and the villagers — the 121st; 


The Capture. 


6 ; 


To Zion’s hill 1 lift my eyes, 

From thence expecting aid, 

From Zion’s hill and Zion’s God 
Who heaven and earth hath made. 

“ Sheltered beneath th’ Almighty’s wings 
Thou shalt securely rest, 

Where neither sun nor moon shalt thee 
By day or night molest. 

From common accidents of life. 

His care shall guard thee still, 

From the blind strokes of chance and foes 
That lie in wait to kill. 

At home, abroad, in peace, in war, 

Thy God shall thee defend. 

Conduct thee through life’s pilgrimage 
Safe to thy journey’s end.” 

These, indeed, were words of cheer and solace which 
had often breathed comfort into sad and desponding hearts. 
To those whose lives were spent for the most part on the 
treacherous deep they came with peculiar force ; but never 
had Arthur himself felt their power as he did that day. 
The little congregation sung the psalm very heartily, as 
if fully convinced by their own experience of its truth. 
When Arthur ascended the pulpit his confidence had 
returned, and he felt that he could trust his own future 
and that of his flock in the hands of the Almighty, who 
had hitherto helped and sustained him. He spoke on a 
theme of which he was never weary, he told them of a 
Father’s loving care over His children, how He yearned 
over them all, though they had wandered far away from 
Him ; how it was His will “ that all men should be saved 
and come to the knowledge of the truth.” The terrors of 
the law, he said, might, indeed, sometimes startle men in 
the midst of a career of sin, and rouse them to a sense of 
their danger, but it was the story of God’s great love to the 
world, in sending His son to die for poor fallen men and 


68 The Watchers on the Long ships. 

women, which moved and melted hardened hearts far 
more than fear, — that must not be the element of our 
religion, but love, for God is love, and, “ His tender 
mercies are over all His works.’’ And then, if they loved 
Him and trusted Him, help would come to them from 
above when they most needed it. ‘‘ I will lift up my eyes 
unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” Now all 
might be peaceful and secure with them, the sky bright and 
cloudless, health, happiness, and quiet days secured to them. 
But who could tell how long such pleasing prospects might 
last ? How often had they seen, after some calm brilliant 
day in summer, the little cloud rise out of the sea, which as 
it rose became larger and blacker, till it burst in a furious 
storm, and the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and 
the winds raged. So it might be with many among them. 
The cloud might come, but no cloud was too dense for 
God’s love to penetrate, no storm so fierce that He could 
not keep those who loved Him and trusted Him safe 
beneath His sheltering wing. The Lord shall keep thee 
from all evil, it is even He that shall keep thy soul.” 

The sermon over, the little congregation began to dis- 
perse. Arthur, who was still apprehensive of danger from 
the press-gang, had marked two or three members of his con- 
gregation whom he thought would be likely victims. Among 
these was Philip Tresilian ; a strong healthy fisher lad of 
seventeen was just the sort of a fellow the rough gang would 
be likely to seize. Moreover, he knew that Philip and his 
father had enemies ready enough to denounce him to the men 
who were collecting forced recruits for his majesty’s navy. 
But there was another man in church, the father of a family, 
who hacLserved some years in a merchant vessel, a good and 
able seaman, who had latterly begun to lead a steady life, 
and came regularly to church, this man Arthur thought was 
very likely to be pressed, so he was anxious to put him on 


The Capture. 


69 


his guard. He meant to catch both him and Philip before they 
had time to get far from the building, and hurried out of the 
vestry after them. He succeeded in overtaking David Abbott, 
who was walking quietly homeward to Sennen Cove with 
his wife and family ; but while he was talking to him Philip 
escaped him, having gone on quickly with his father and 
sister. Abbott was very grateful to Arthur for his caution ; 
as there seemed no means by which he could get a legal pro- 
tection against impressment, he said he would walk off into 
the interior, some way from the coast, and spend the night 
at the house of a married sister who lived at a lonely farm, 
which the press-gang were not at all likely to discover. 

Arthur now determined to go to the Cove and to Tresilian’s 
cottage. His intention was to take Philip home with him. 
At his father’s house he knew he would be quite safe, and 
there he would keep him till all danger was passed. How- 
ever, “man proposes, God disposes.” Just as Arthur had 
taken leave of David Abbott, a girl ran up to him, and im- 
plored him to come at once to see her mother, who was at 
the point of death. Arthur dared not delay so sacred a 
duty, and he had now to turn back to Sennen village. Here 
we must leave him for the present, while we follow the 
fortunes of Philip Tresilian. 

The three walked quietly home from church to their 
cottage by the sea-shore. Owen perceived the cutter, but 
took no particular notice of it. He sat down with his 
family to their frugal meal. That finished, he handed down 
the big Bible to Mary, and she, as her usual custom on 
Sunday afternoon, when there was no service at church, 
read out of it to her father and brother. This lasted for 
about an hour. All the time Philip was restless and ill at 
ease. The fact was, that good and evil were struggling 
within him ; he was hesitating between duty and inclination. 

As he was going to church in the morning, two lads of his 


70 


The Watchers on the Longships, 


acquaintance had said to him, It’s a pity, Philip, after being 
at church all the morning, that you should shut yourself up 
for the whole afternoon ; come out for a stroll with us along 
the shore, then we’ll have a bathe and a swimming race round 
the point, the sea’s so smooth, it’s just the day for it ! ” 

The proposal was a tempting one ; but those who made it 
were lads who did not bear the best of characters. Philip 
hesitated. It was hard to say No. It always is to refuse 
what is pleasant, and harder still when mockery and 
ridicule are likely to follow the refusal. “ Come, Philip,” 
said the elder of the two, “we’ll be quits, — Bob and 
I’ll go to church this morning for a change, if you’ll 
come along with us in the afternoon. What d’ye say to 
that ? ” 

“ Well I’m sure the parson will be glg,d to see you in 
church, Dick ; but as to this afternoon ” 

“ Come, come, don’t be a fool, Philip ; what’s the harm of 
taking a walk along the shore and having a bathe ? I don’t 
believe your friend the parson would even object ; besides, 
it’s a bargain ; if we go to church this morning, the least you 
can do is to go with us this afternoon.” 

“ V ery well, Dick, I will if I can, but mind you, I can’t 
quite promise.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense, Phil ; you’ll come, I know ; the 
matter’s settled, we’ll say no more about it. Come along to 
church. Bob.” 

The two young fellows kept their promise and went to 
church. Arthur had perceived them there with surprise 
and pleasure. Dick tried to go to sleep, but Bob was very 
attentive and well-behaved during the whole service. 

Now Philip’s mind was occupied during the afternoon, 
while his sister was reading, thinking about his half promise . 
to go with these lads. He knew they were not just the sort 
of fellows the parson would like to see him with, and espe- 


The Capture, 


71 


cially on a Sunday afternoon ; and he thought, too, of all he 
had said to him yesterday about the effects of bad com- 
pany ; on the other hand, just for once, it surely could not 
matter, and it was such a fine bright warm afternoon, and 
the sea so smooth, perhaps he mightn’t have another chance 
so good for a long time. Yes, he would go. He looked out 
of the window, and saw Bob and Dick waiting for him on 
the beach ; that settled him at once. He took his cap off the 
peg, and was going to the door, when Mary said to him, 
“ What ! are you going out, Phil ? Can’t you stay a little 
longer, and then I should like to go with you, after I have 
read father one more story.” 

“ No, Mary, I can’t wait any longer ; it’s such a fine day, 
I’m going for a walk, and shall go much farther and faster 
than you are able.” 

“ I’m sorry you won’t wait for me, Phil,” said his sister, 
reproachfully ; “ I was thinking this morning what a nice 
ramble we might have together this afternoon, and I could 
gather a nosegay of wild flowers, which I have not done 
once this spring.” 

“ I’ll go with you next Sunday, Mary, I can’t go to-day. I’m 
in a hurry now, so good-bye.” And he rushed out of the 
door, and down to the beach. 

“ You shall come with me, Mary,” said her father, kindly. 
“ I’ll go out with you whichever way you like.” 

“ Thank you, father,” said Mary. “ I wonder what Phil 
is up to. He seemed so determined to go out ; he isn’t often 
like that.” She went to look out of the window and then 
continued. “ Oh ! there he is, yonder, walking along between 
two lads pf about his size ; one is Dick Evans, I know, but 
I can’t make out who the other is.” 

“ Dick Evans ! ” exclaimed her father, “ a very bad com- 
panion for Philip ; I don’t like that at all, Mary, the boy’s 
not as he used to be ; he’ll be led astray at last, I’m afraid. 


72 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

and get into bad ways, and become like the rest of the 
young fellows here/’ 

“ Oh, don’t say so, father. Think how mother used to 
pray for him when she was alive.” 

“ And we pray for him, too, I hope, Mary,” said Owen. 

Philip didn’t feel comfortable as he left the cottage, and 
walked quickly down to the beach. But he had no presenti- 
ment of what was in store for him ; he little thought of the 
fatal consequences of that Sunday afternoon walk, and of 
the important influence it was to have on his future life. 

The plot had been schemed the night before in the 
alehouse by Nichols, Pollard, and a few other men, who 
were sworn enemies to Tresilian and his family. The lads 
had been bribed to decoy Philip away from the village to 
a lonely part of the sea-shore. One of the conspirators had 
rowed out to the press-gang cutter while service was going 
on in church, and had told them the exact spot where they 
might that afternoon secure a prize. Nichols and Pollard 
were lurking about on the beach waiting for Philip and 
his companions. They hoped to see and take part in the 
capture, and were gloating in anticipation on the dismay 
' and sorrow which Philip would suffer at being thus dragged 
away from his home, and the grief which his father would 
experience at the loss of his only son. 

The three lads walked slowly onwards. Dick proposed 
that they should stroll round to the next point, on the other 
side of which was a sandy bay, the usual bathing-place of 
the lads of the village. To this Philip consented. When 
they jiad got round the point, they observed a small boat 
drawn up on the shore. There was no one in it. “ Whose 
boat is that?” said Philip, “ we don’t often see boats drawn 
up here in this bay, and on a Sunday, too ! ” 

“ Oh,” said Dick, ‘‘ I know all about it. The punt be- 
longs to yonder cutter which has come to look out for 



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The Capture. 


73 


smugglers. They’ve got an idea that there are some 
smuggled goods hid in one of the caves in the cliff here, or 
buried under the sand, and they’ve sent some of their men 
to look for them.” 

Oh, that’s all, is it ! ” said Philip, Come on then. 
Bob, here’s a capital place for a swim, let’s go and undress 
by that rock, it’s in the shade there.” 

Near the spot that the lads chose was a cavern, the 
entrance to which was low and narrow ; but it extended 
some way under the cliff, becoming at last large and 
spacious. They rapidly undressed, and then one after 
another ran off into the bright sparkling sea, which looked 
so inviting and refreshing on that sultry afternoon. They 
swam about for some time, Philip in the race always sur- 
passing his companions, for he was a first-rate swimmer. 

They were all in high spirits when they returned to dress, 
making the cliff re-echo with their merry peals of laughter. 
Philip was nearly ready, when he was suddenly startled by 
hearing loud voices proceeding from the interior of the 
cavern near the boat, and before he had time to get on all 
his clothes he felt himself seized by strong rude hands and 
thrown upon the ground. His assailants, he at once per- 
ceived, were sailors of his majesty’s navy, but where they 
came from, and why they attacked him, was a riddle he 
could not solve. At the same time Dick and Bob were 
likewise captured by the gang. All three were then dragged 
into the interior of the cavern. Here Philip perceived 
Nichols and Ben Pollard. The former, with a burst of 
malicious laughter, exclaimed, — 

“ Come, Philip, you’re paid off at last, you’re pressed now 
for his majesty’s navy, and you may say good-bye for a 
long time to Sennen, to your friend the Methodist parson, 
and to your father, to whom we owe so many grudges. 
Well, Ben, we’re revenged, now, ain’t we ? ” 


74 


The Watchers or the Longships, 

“ Yes, that we are, John,” said Ben, cheerfully. “ But 
what do you mean,, my good men, by seizing hold of those 
other two fellows ; it’s only this one ” — pointing to Philip 
— “we want you to carry oif.” 

“ It is not who you want us to carry off,” said the leader 
of the gang, gruffly, “ we’re not here to pick and choose ; we 
shall press all the young fellows we can for the navy, — 
that’s what we’ve orders to do.” 

“That’s not fair play,” said Nichols, “we only promised 
you this fellow here we’re longing to get rid of — not the 
other two lads.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” said the sailor, “ we’ve got them, 
and we’ll keep them now.” 

“ Where are you going to take me to ? What does it all 
mean } ” exclaimed Philip, trying to release himself from 
the strong grasp of the sailor. 

“No struggling, young chap, or you’ll get more than you 
bargain for,” said the man who was holding him. “ It 
means that you’re pressed for the navy, and you’ll have to 
come with us on board yonder cutter till you’re sent to join 
the fleet.” 

“ Let me go, let me go ! ” exclaimed Philip. “ I must 
tell my father about this, he’ll get me off. I’m sure; and 
he’s expecting me home by this time.” 

“ Well, he’ll have to wait long enough, then, if that’s the 
case ; we mean to carry you off this minute — there’s*our 
boat ; you won’t see Sennen Cove again for many a long 
day.” 

Philip now burst into tears ; he begged and implored the 
men to let him go home only to say good-bye to his father 
and sisterf he promised to go with them then, and do all 
they required of him. But his prayers and entreaties were 
of no avail, they only laughed and mocked at him, while 
Nichols and Pollard continued to express their satisfaction 


The Capture. 


75 


at the success of their plot, so far as Philip was concerned, 
though they were evidently vexed that Dick and Bob should 
have also fallen into the trap. 

These two lads naturally enough were much incensed at 
the turn affairs had taken. They bitterly reproached the 
elder men, for they did not believe their assertion that they 
had not desired their capture. However, they well deserved 
their fate : they had themselves fallen into the trap they 
had been bribed to lay for their companion. Resistance 
was useless. At first, indeed, they howled and struggled to 
get free ; but the sailors were too strong for them, they were 
six in number and well armed ; they threatened to bind 
and gag them if they did not at once submit. 

Nichols and Pollard were so overjoyed at the success 
of their scheme as regarded Philip that they soon forgot 
their vexation at the capture of the other two lads. 
After all, the fewer hands there were in the place the more 
money would be earned by those who were left behind. Dick 
and Bob might well be spared. Dick^s uncle would grumble 
at first, perhaps, but he would soon find that it was a good 
riddance to lose his lazy nephew. Bob^s mother would 
doubtless fret a good deal, and if she found out they had a 
hand in the business, it would be a long time before they 
heard the end of it. Still that wouldn’t do them any great' 
harm, so they must make the best of a bad job. 

The sailors of the press-gang, whose hearts were as hard as 
stone, and who were accustomed nearly every day of their 
lives to take part in similar scenes, now proceeded to seize 
their victims, and drag them to the boat which lay on the 
shore awaiting them. The hoarse laugh of the sailors, and 
the jeers and scoffs of Nichols and Pollard, were mingled 
with the sobs of poor Philip, and the yells and angry pro- 
testations of Dick and Bob. 

Let us now turn away from this scene of violence to see 


y6 The Watchers on the T.ongships. 

what has become of Arthur Pendrean during this eventful 
afternoon. 

We left the young clergyman just as he was summoned 
to the sick-bed of a poor woman. She was one of those 
who had been converted years ago by the preaching 
of John Wesley, and who had welcomed with joy and 
gratitude the advent of the zealous young clerg}mian to 
St. Sennen. She had ever been a regular attendant at 
the services of the church, she was a faithful communi- 
cant, and now in her last hours she thanked God that 
He had sent His minister to be at her side to cheer her as 
she passed through the dark valley of the shadow of death. 
Arthur administered to her the communion of the sick, 
and, in those sacred offices to the weary pilgrim whose 
earthly race was so near its close, he forgot for the time his 
anxiety about the other members of his flock, and the danger 
with which they were threatened. He could not leave that 
bedside till all was over, and the faithful servant had 
peacefully passed away into the joy of her Lord. 

When he had said a few words of comfort to the sorrow- 
ing relatives he left the cottage, and, looking at his watch, 
perceived that he had only just time to ride over to St. 
Levan, where he had to perform evening service that after- 
noon. His thoughts naturally reverted to Philip and the 
press-gang, but he could do nothing now, he could only 
hope that he was exaggerating the danger, and utter a 
fervent prayer that God would protect that lad and others 
from being dragged from their homes, against their will, into 
a life which in those days was full of the gravest peril^ to 
the soul, and in which it seemed to Arthur almost impos- 
sible that^ny one, and especially a young lad, could lead a 
godly and moral life. 

The service at St. Levan was not a long one, and imme- 
diately it was over, Arthur galloped off to Sennen Cove, 


The Capture. 


77 


which he reached about half-past five in the afternoon. He 
went at once to Tresilian’s cottage. He knocked at the 
door several times, but there was no reply. The fine 
afternoon had doubtless tempted the family out for a stroll 
on the beach or the cliffs. If Philip was in his father’s 
company, probably all would be well. The cutter still lay 
at anchor in the bay. All was calm and quiet. He saw 
none of the inhabitants about, of whom he could inquire 
in which direction the Tresilians had gone. He felt uncertain 
as to what he should do next. The danger he saw was 
still there, but how could he warn those who were likely to 
be its victims ? 

He rode down slowly to the beach. As he found no one 
about, he went into one of the cottages, and inquired of an 
old woman who lived there, if she had chanced to see any- 
thing of Owen Tresilian and his son and daughter during 
the afternoon. She replied that more than half an hour 
ago she had seen Philip walking along the beach with Dick 
and Bob, and that they had disappeared round the point 
to the eastward. They seemed in high spirits, and were 
laughing and talking gayly enough. To Arthur this was 
by no means cheering intelligence ; he was sorry to think 
that Philip should have chosen such companions on Sunday 
afternoon, especially after the talk he had had with him on 
the previous evening. The appearance of the two lads in 
church that morning had greatly surprised him ; he began 
to fear that no good motive had brought them there, and, 
still more, to suspect foul play. At all events, he would 
follow them in the direction indicated by the old woman ; 
so, tying up his horse close to her cottage, he hastened along ^ 
the beach, and towards the point which hid the adjoining 
bay. 

Before he turned the point, shrieks and yells, mingled 
with loud laughter and horrid curses, met his ear. Me 


y8 The Wa tellers on the Longs hips, 

shuddered at the profane language, though in those days, 
alas ! every one was accustomed daily to hear ; but this 
was more blasphemous than usual. Arthur felt certain 
now that the press-gang men had landed, and that a 
struggle was going on between them and some of their 
victims. God grant that Philip might not be among them ! 
But he prepared himself for the worst; he knew that a 
hard conflict was before him, and he lifted up his heart in 
prayer to his Heavenly Father, asking Him to give him 
strength and courage to say and do what was right, and to 
guard him in every danger with His all-powerful hand. 

To fear, Arthur was a complete stranger. His natural dis- 
position was bold ; physically strong, and with the heart 
of a lion, he had never cared since his boyhood what odds 
he faced, if the weak were to be defended against the strong, 
or injustice, meanness, or cruelty to be resisted. When, 
therefore, on turning the point he found himself in the 
presence of the scene we have previously described, — the 
six press-gang men, dragging the three lads struggling 
against them to their boat, while the two cowardly be- 
trayers looked on, standing with their hands in their pockets, 
chuckling and mocking at poor Philip’s despair, — he drew 
himself up with the air of one accustomed to command and 
be obeyed, and in a stern, bold voice, in which there was 
no hesitation nor the smallest sign of fear, exclaimed, — 
What are you doing here, men ? take your hands off 
those lads at once ; what right have you to drag them 
away ? ” 

The six men were so startled at this most unexpected 
apparition, and by this loud authoritative voice, that they 
did in fa^t let go their grasp of the boys for a moment, 
which Philip at once took advantage of. He ran up to Arthur, 
threw himself at his feet, clung to his knees, and cried — 

Oh, save me, sir ! save me. They are going to take me 


The Capture. ~ 79 

away from you and my father for ever, and force me to be 
a sailor in the fleet.’’ 

But the rough tars, so suddenly startled, soon recovered 
their self-possession. They now perceived that this new- 
comer was a parson, — a very different sort of parson, 
indeed, from those to whom they were accustomed — never- 
theless he was one ; and of all men, parsons were treated with 
the least deference and respect by ruffians, who mostly came 
from the scum of the population. Sailors, in those days, 
who had been forced into service by impressment, were 
glad enough to employ themselves in pressing others, and 
many of them, too, were criminals who had been released 
from jail, on condition that they joined the fleet. 

‘‘Who are you, I should like to know,” exclaimed the 
leader of the gang with a volley of oaths, “ who dares to 
interfere with us and our duty ? ” 

Arthur had felt from the very first that he had no 
authority whatever to resist these men in seizing any 
who were not provided with legal protections and who were 
between the ages of seventeen and forty-five. Happily he 
remembered that Philip was not seventeen, and it was only 
on this ground that he could claim his release. 

“Your warrant does not allow you, my men, to press 
any lad under seventeen, and Philip Tresilian here is not 
seventeen yet. . Therefore you will not take him with you,” 
said Arthur firmly. 

“We shall take whoever we please without the per- 
mission of a canting parson like you,” said the sailor with 
more oaths and curses, “ if you dare to resist his majesty’s 
warrant, we’ll carry you off, too,” he continued, with a loud 
and jeering laugh. 

“ A precious good thing too for us, mates,” chimed in 
John Nichols, with an impudent leer at Arthur. 

“You’ll touch me at your peril,” said the parson. 


8o The Watchers on the Longships. 

“ Neither shall you carry off this lad, so long as I stand 
here to protect him. He’s not seventeen, and till he is 
you dare not press him for the service.” 

“ Well, this beats all I ever seen in my born days,” cried 
another of the gang. ‘‘To have a parson come and defy 
six strong tars like us, doing our duty in his majesty’s 
service. What next, I should like to know ? ” 

“The fellow is seventeen. I’ll swear,” said Nichols, 
approaching the leader of the gang. 

“ So’ll I,” said Ben. 

“And I, too,” yelled Dick, “ but I’ll swear I’m not sixteen ; 
so, come, let me off, good sirs, won’t ye ? ” 

“ Hold your tongue, rascal,” said the man. “ If ye were 
only twelve I’d press the whole lot of you.” 

“ I assure you, sir, it’s true, and I’m not seventeen,” 
groaned Philip, still clinging closer to Arthur. 

“ Who cares what you say, any of you ; and nobody can 
prove it. The fellow is big enough for seventeen at any 
rate, and what’s certain is, that we’re going to take him off 
to his majesty’s fleet, so you’ll do best all of you to come 
away quiet, and don’t force us to use violence ; as if you 
resist us, we shall have to do,” said another of the men. 

“ If you care to do what is right, you will come back 
with me to Sennen Cove and see his father,” said Arthur. 

“ Go back to Sennen, indeed ; catch us doing that,” said 
the head of the gang. “ No, no ; no more parleying or 
halting. Come, lads, we must be off, we can’t waste any 
more time here. Seize hold of that fellow, never mind 
the parson.” 

Philip still clung convulsively to Arthur. The men now 
advanced to drag him away — the other two lads were 
already in the boat with one of the men. 

“You’ll not take him if I can help it,” exclaimed Arthur, 
who grasped Philip’s shoulder with his left hand, while 


The Capture. 8i 

with his right he hurled back the man who had attempted 
to seize him. 

The man was furious at this repulse. ‘‘ We’ll soon settle 
that game,” said the leader, and he at once gave a signal 
to the other men, who fell upon Arthur from behind and 
dragged him to the ground ; while he himself seized Philip 
with an iron grasp, forced him to release his hold of the 
parson, and dragged him to the boat. 

Cowards, that you are ! ” cried Arthur, as he sprang to 
his feet, but only to be dragged down again by his assailants. 
“ Six against one, but I’ll be equal with you yet. I’ll 
have the lad released when he gets to Plymouth, and have 
you punished for this act of violence and for acting 
beyond what your warrant allows. 

We’re not afraid of that, parson,” said the leader of 
the gang, and I hope you’ll learn not to interfere with 
his majesty’s officers again.” 

Oh, sir,” cried Philip from the boat into which he had 
been dragged, ‘‘ say good-bye to father for me, tell him not 
to fret about me ; I know you will get me released,” and 
the poor lad sobbed as if his heart would break, ‘‘ ah ! 
perhaps I shall never see them again.” 

“ Come, stop all this noise,” said the sailor. None of 
this here,” as he passed the boat off the sand ; “ come 
along you chaps,” he called out to his companions who 
were still holding Arthur down, “ you can leave that fool 
of a parson, he can’t get after us in the water.” 

The men leaped into the boat. No sooner was he free 
than Arthur, who saw now that, in the face of such superior 
numbers, all resistance was vain, put his hand into his 
breast pocket and drew out a small Testament. “ One 
moment,” he said to the men, “ I know I can’t resist you 
now ; one word with the lad,” and advancing up to his 
knees in the water he handed Philip the Testament. 


82 The Watchers on the Longships, 

Take that/’ he said to him, ‘‘ read it whenever you can, 
and think of me and of those you leave behind at Sennen. 
Be a brave lad, Philip, and a credit to your family and 
your country. Trust in God. Remember what I told 
you yesterday. I will get you off, if I can, my boy ; if 
not, I commend you to God, and I know he will guard and 
guide you, till one day we meet again — if not here — 
above.” 

“ Why, here’s the parson preaching a sermon out of the 
water!” said one of the men, in a tone of mockery. 
“ Shove off, lads, pull away, my lads 1 ” 

Philip’s sobs prevented him from saying a word in reply 
to his faithful friend and pastor. He gazed at him through 
his tears till he was out of sight. 


A Fruitless Search. 


83 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A FRUITLESS SEARCH. 

He groans in spirit for his wife and son, — 

Sore troubled like his Lord : he weeps and cries, 

I have lost her : yet, O Lord, Thy will be done. 

And he, — oh now, within Thine arms he lies, 

O Father, and I thank Thee; yet, I pray. 

Oh, spare him ! ” . . . 

— Rev. S. J, Stone. 


Arthur Pendrean stood alone on the sea-shore. The two 
Sennen men, to gratify whose malice and spite this wicked 
plot had been conceived and carried out, had slunk away, 
not wishing to expose themselves to the clergyman’s indig- 
nant reproaches, which they knew they so well deserved. 
There he stood, solitary, cast down, overwhelmed with bitter 
grief and anguish. All seemed to have gone against him 
that day. Had he but arrived earlier at the Cove he could 
have saved Philip, and now he only owed his defeat to the 
superior numbers arrayed against him. This was the 
severest blow which had fallen upon him during the short 
course of his ministerial labors. There was no lad in the 
parish he took so deep an interest in as Philip : perfection 
in a world so exposed to manifold temptations he could not 
expect, but Philip had promised well, his heart was still 
tender and open to receive God’s truth, as the conversation 
he had had with him the previous evening had proved. 
And now this gentle-spirited but brave-hearted boy, who 
hitherto by a mother’s love and a father’s care had, in a 


84 The Watchers 0}i the Longships. 

measure, been sheltered and protected from the evil and 
vicious influences of his native village, was suddenly to be 
plunged into a world, where vice in its most hideous forms 
reigned paramount, where his companions would be ruffians 
gathered from jails, or men hardened by a career of sin and 
infamy ; and where there was little hope that the good seed 
planted in the lad’s soul could ever grow up to perfection, 
but be choked or crushed out by constant contact with the 
vile and reprobate, by whom he would henceforth be sur- 
rounded. 

But Arthur’s disposition was not one to give way to 
despair. As he gazed at the little boat, whose oars fell 
rapidly into the glassy surface of the tranquil sea, while 
it grew smaller and smaller as it receded from the shore, 
and in the bright sunlight he could still just distinguish 
the figures within it, he lifted up his heart in fervent 
prayer to God, to give strength and courage to that poor 
sorrowing lad, that he might be faithful and pure as Joseph 
in the house of Potiphar, and bold and steadfast as Daniel 
at the court of Babylon. He who had begun the good 
work in the boy’s heart, surely would not allow it to come 
to naught. He would never suffer him to be tempted above 
what he was able to bear, but would with the temptation 
make a way for him to escape. He who had chosen the 
weak things of the world to confound the things which are 
mighty, had perhaps chosen the lad as a special instrument 
whereby His name should be glorified in the midst of an 
ungodly generation. 

The young clergyman now bethought him of a sad duty 
he had to perform, and this was to break the evil tidings 
to Philip’s^ather. He hurried back to Sennen Cove, but 
he was too late to be the first to inform Owen of his son’s 
hard fate. With villainous glee Nichols and Pollard had 
ba^tened^up to Tresilian’s cottage, and met him and his 


A Fruitless Search. 85 

little daughter just as they were returning from their quiet 
stroll. 

‘‘ IVe a piece of news for you, Owen,” exclaimed Nichols, 
with a malicious grin. “ Your young chap’s been carried 
olf by the press-gang to yonder cutter : I saw the sailors 
drag him olf myself.” 

Owen stood rooted to the spot with horror and amaze- 
ment. 

“ What does he mean, father } ” said Mary ; “ has any- 
thing happened to Philip ? ” 

Yes,” said Ben, you’ll not see your brother again, 
little one, for many a long day, perhaps never at all ; he 
has been pressed for a sailor on board his majesty’s fleet, 
and that’s the long and short of it.” 

Scoundrels that you are ! ” cried Owen, in a burst of 
passion, “ I don’t believe a word of it, it’s a lying tale 
you’ve invented to vex and worry me ; only one of your 
old wicked tricks.” 

“ It’s true enough, as you’ll soon find out to your cost,” 
said Nichols, with an insolent laugh, ‘‘ You’ll hear all 
about it from your friend the parson, and we’re very glad it 
has happened, pleased enough to get rid of the young cub ; 
only wish his father’d gone to keep him company, and the 
parson, too.” 

Mary burst into tears. She began to understand now 
that Philip had in some mysterious way been carried off. 
Owen’s rage, indignation, and anguish knew no bounds. 

If this story is true,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ I believe you two 
villains have been at the bottom of it ; you must have laid 
some vile plot to entrap the boy. Ah ! I’ll have justice 
done. I’ll be a match for you ! ” 

“ Talk as big as you like, Owen, but there’s no question 
of justice in these days, when the government has given 
orders to press all the men they can lay hands on to man 


86 The Watchers on the Longships. 

the fleet. You’ll get no redress, I warrant,” said Nichols, 
and if we’ve had a finger in the pie, we shall only get 
his majesty’s thanks for presenting a promising seaman 
to his navy, and the gratitude of many folks hereabouts, 
too, for getting rid of that prating young rogue, who was 
always running after that fool of a parson. 

With these words the men turned quickly away, for they 
were eager to go to the village ale-house to tell their com- 
panions there how well the plot had succeeded. 

Scarcely were their backs turned than Arthur, flushed 
and excited, came up to Owen’s cottage. He found him 
standing outside, dismay and anguish depicted on his 
countenance, while Mary, her face hidden in her hands, 
was sobbing aloud. He perceived at once that the bad 
news had already reached Owen’s ear, and the retreating 
figures of the two villains in the distance told him by what 
means. He grasped the poor father’s hand and said, in a 
low tone of deep sympathy, — 

“ I see you know the worst, Owen, but cheer up ; it’s not 
so bad after all. I’ll never rest till I get the lad released. 
He’s not seventeen, I know, and below that age he is not 
eligible for impressment.” 

“ Ah, sir, you’ve always been a friend in need to me and 
mine. There is a little comfort ' in what you say, for it’s 
true the lad’s not seventeen ; but I fear when they’ve once 
got him into their clutches they won’t so easily give him 
up,” replied Owen. 

‘‘ Yes, I hope they will, if proper representations are 
made,” said Arthur. 

“ Ah, sir, can’t you save my brother ? ” sobbed Mary. 
“ Is it -true what those bad men said, that I shall never 
see Philip again ? ” 

“ No, Mary, we’ll hope for the best, and that I shall be 
able to bring him back in a few days. So cheer up. Re- 


A Fruitless Search, 


37 


member, too, our clear Philip is in his loving Almighty 
Father’s hands ; think of the psalm we sung in church this 
morning ; the words still seem to ring in my ears, and God 
grant that Philip, too, may be feeling comfort in these 
words — 

“ ‘ At home, abroad, in peace, in war, 

Thy God shall thee defend, 

Conduct thee through life’s pilgrimage 
Safe to thy journey’s end.’ ” 

Owen’s eyes filled with tears, he could not utter a word ; 
but he grasped the young clergyman’s hand warmly. 

“ Come,” said Arthur, “ let us go into the cottage and 
talk this matter over calmly. Let us ask God to bless us in 
all that we mean to do, and to aid us in obtaining Philip’s 
release, and to give us grace, too, that we may in everything 
submit ourselves to His holy will, and feel that He doeth 
all things well.” 

When seated in the house Arthur told them the whole 
story of Philip’s capture ; how he had suddenly come upon 
the scene, and done his utmost to save the lad, but that in 
face of the violence employed against him, and of superior 
numbers, his efforts had been unavailing. Then they all 
knelt down and prayed to God that He would give them 
strength to bear this trial ; that it might turn out to His 
glory ; and asked that if it were His will Philip might be 
restored to his family ; but if not, that He would graciously 
preserve him both in body and soul. 

Arthur decided to start with Owen the next day to 
Plymouth, where they would seek an interview with the 
naval authorities, to protest against Philip’s capture as 
illegal. 

At nightfall the cutter was still at anchor in the same 
place. It was expected that the gang would land and 
make a raid upon the village. This, however, did not 


88 The Watchers on the Lo7igships. 

come to pa^s. They had secured as their prize three strong 
health}' lads, and they knew that all the village would 
now be on the alert, and the most eligible men con- 
ceal themselves. They might, too, get involved in some 
trouble about Philip — ; if he were really, as asserted, under 
seventeen. The young parson who had confronted them 
so boldly was evidently not a man to be trifled with, and 
they felt certain he would use every possible means to 
rescue their victim. But they would foil him, nevertheless. 
The next morning at dawn not a trace of the cutter was to be 
seen. Owen, who had been on the lookout all night, thought 
she had sailed to the westward, but he could not be certain 
— if such were the case she would round the Land’s End, 
and probably make for Falmouth or Plymouth. 

The capture of the three lads caused great excitement 
both at Sennen Cove and village. The part played in 
the affair by Nichols and Pollard was by no means 
regarded with unanimous satisfaction by the inhabitants. 
The majority, indeed, joined them in their grudge against 
Tresilian, who was regarded as friendly to the parson and 
those who promoted the obnoxious lighthouse scheme, so 
they rather rejoiced that Philip had been pressed ; but the 
relations of the other two lads were loud in their expres- 
sions of indignation, they asserted that Nichols and Pollard 
had taken a large bribe from the press-gang men to entrap 
the three young fellows and deliver them over into their 
hands, and as this was believed by most of- the villagers, 
the two men were henceforth regarded with distrust and 
aversion by all except the most degraded and vicious. 

Arthur consulted his father that evening on the un- 
happy event of the day. The squire, as lord of the 
manor, and as a county magistrate, naturally possessed 
a good deal of influence, and this his son persuaded him to 
employ energetically to obtain the release of Philip Tre- 


A Fruitless Search, 


89 


silian. Letters were despatched in all directions, the naval 
authorities in Plymouth were communicated with, the Ad- 
miralty in London was petitioned. Everything; was done 
to obtain the release of the youth who had so illegally been 
pressed for the service. 

Next morning the young clergyman, accompanied by 
Owen, started for Falmouth. They thought it not unlikely 
that the cutter would put into that port before proceeding to 
Plymouth. There were several men-of-war, too, in Falmouth 
harbor, and the victims of the recent impressment might 
possibly be immediately put on board one or other of them. 
But nothing had been heard or seen of the cutter in Falmouth. 
The clergyman and the anxious father then proceeded to 
Plymouth, but here no greater success awaited them ; they 
were assured by the authorities that the cutter had not put 
in there. Arthur made every possible inquiry, he sought 
an interview with the admiral who commanded the fleet, 
and with the governor of the citadel ; they promised that 
if the yacht with the young men on board put into Ply- 
.mouth, the matter should be fully investigated, and the lad 
who had been illegally impressed, immediately released 
and sent back to his home. But those were days of war 
and great political excitement, when the country’s honor 
was at stake and mighty issues were hanging in the balance. 
The fate of one poor fisher boy was of little consequence to 
men who had fleets and armies at their command, nor were 
the zealous efforts and petitions of a village parson likely 
to be remembered by boards and councils who were wield- 
ing the destinies of the nation, during so critical a period. 

Arthur was obliged to return at the end of a week to 
Cornwall for his Sunday duties. Owen, more anxious 
and more desponding than ever about his son’s fate, deter- 
mined to take a passage in a fishing smack to Portsmouth, 
where he hoped to learn some tidings of the missing cutter. 


90 The Watchers on the Longships, 

As he was furnished with an order for Philip’s release, he 
trusted that if the lad could only be found he might be 
liberated at once. But their ill success both at Falmouth 
and Plymouth did not encourage the afflicted father. When 
men were so scarce, and the press-gang men were rewarded 
for every recruit they captured, it was unlikely they would 
land at ports where inquiries would be instituted, and 
their victims released. Most probably Philip was already 
on board a man-of-war which was sailing to some scene 
of action far away from the shores of England. But 
Owen would leave no stone unturned to find his son. There- 
fore, commending his little daughter, who had been sent to 
the squire’s house during her father’s absence, to Arthur’s 
care, he sailed for Portsmouth, with but faint hopes of 
success. 

A fortnight passed away, and no news of Owen Tresilian 
reached Sennen Cove. Poor little Mary, who was most 
kindly treated at the squire’s, and whom Arthur did all in 
his power to cheer and comfort, pined and fretted sadly at 
the absence of her father and brother. Letters in those 
days were very rare occurrences ; indeed, if any inhabitant of 
so remote a village as St. Sennen received one, it was an 
event — in fact, a nine days’ wonder. Neither the parson 
nor Mary, therefore, expected to get any news of Owen by 
post, but they daily hoped to see him. The men at the 
Cove were overjoyed at his departure. 

“ We did a good stroke of business last Sunday week, 
Ben,” said Nichols one day as the two friends met on the 
beach. “ We thought we had only rid ourselves of the 
young ’un, but the old ’un seems to be gone, too. He’s 
fallen into some trap, we’ll hope.” 

“ He sailed in a smack from Plymouth to Portsmouth ; 
perhaps he’s been pounced upon by a French cruiser,” said 
Ben. 


A Fi'iiitless Search. 


91 


‘‘That would be too great a piece of luck, Ben/^ said 
Nichols, “ no ; 1 expect he’ll turn up one of these days ; 
but as to the young chap, he’s not likely to trouble us again.” 

“They be hard at work at the lighthouse now, again, 
John,” said Ben. 

“Yes,” he said with an oath, “and a poor lookout for 
us next winter, if it is finished by that time.” 

“ Sure to be, John ! ” replied Pollard. 

It was nearly a week after this conversation, late one 
Saturday night, when a man weary, foot-sore, with haggard 
face, and clothes torn and ragged, knocked at the door of 
the manor house. When it was opened, Mary at once 
recognized her father’s voice and rushed into his arms. 

“O father ! ” she said, “you’ve come at last. How long 
you’ve stayed away. I thought you’d never come, and I’ve 
cried myself to sleep at night, though everybody has been 
so kind to me. How ill you look, father, and how tired, 
and where is Philip ? I thought you had gone to bring 
him back, but he is not with you. Isn’t he coming then ? ” 

Owen sank down exhausted in a chair. He clasped his 
daughter, his now only remaining treasure, to his heart ; 
his voice was so choked with grief and emotion he could 
hardly speak. At last he said, “Yes, Mary, thank God, I 
have come back to you ; but a hard and weary time I’ve had 
of it, and I’ve not been able to get any news of Philip ; I 
fear I shall never see my dear boy again.” 

“Oh, don’t say so, father,” sobbed Mary.« “Surely, 
some day he’ll come back to us.” 

At that moment Arthur entered the room ; he warmly 
grasped Owen’s hand. 

“ My good friend,” he said, “ I’m glad, indeed, to see you 
back again. I have been quite anxious about you, and as 
to poor Mary here, it was all that I could do to keep up 
her spirits at all. Ah ! I read in your sad face that you 


92 


The Watchers the Longships. 


have had no success ; but come, tell me, have you heard 'j 
anything about him ? ” 1 

“No, sir, nothing whatever,’’ said Owen sadly. “I { 
sailed, as you know, to Portsmouth in the smack, working • 
my passage. My shipmates were good-hearted fellows, 
and said when we got to Portsmouth they’d do all they 
could to help me to trace the cutter. Well, we had a 
very long, rough passage, contrary winds all the way. We 
reached Portsmouth at last, and there I set to work to get 
some tidings of my poor boy. Furnished with the letters 
and papers you and your father gave me, sir, I went before 
every one who possessed any influence — magistrates, naval 
boards, dock-yard authorities ; some refused to hear me, and 
sent me rudely about my business, others assured me that 
the cutter had not put in there, and that all the men who 
had been pressed along the Cornish coast had been taken 
at once to the fleet, which was somewhere cruising in the 
channel. One gentleman who seemed to have a kinder 
heart than the rest, and who said he had a son himself, a 
midshipman, on board the fleet, and so could feel for me, 
told me that there was no use my troubling myself any more 
about the matter. It was too late now. There was such a 
scarcity of seamen that every one was being pressed they 
could lay hold of, and that even the jails had been emptied 
to man the fleet. My boy, he was certain, was far off at sea 
by this time, and I must make the best of a bad job, and 
submit to my fate. He hoped some day he would return to 
me safe and well, and be a credit to his country. And that’s 
all the comfort I got, sir. But I didn’t give up yet. I 
persevered in my inquiries, but all was no use. Then I 
thought -of my little one here, and felt that it was time for 
me to return home. I looked out for a passage back to Ply- 
mouth or Falmouth, and finding a brig bound for Falmouth 
just about to sail, 1 arranged with the master to work out 


A Fruitless Search. 


93 


my passage to that port. But I had fallen upon a very 
rough lot, they drank, they swore, they blasphemed in a 
way it was horrible to listen to ; and because I would not join 
them in their wickedness they ill-treated me, giving me all 
the hard work to do, and very little to eat. We had bad 
stormy weather, too, as is not usual at this time of year, 
but very thankful was I when we got to Falmouth at 
last, and I was once more at liberty. I walked home at 
once, and never stopped till I reached your father’s door, 
and faint and tired I am now, sir, I can assure you.” 

‘‘You shall have a good meal and a good night’s rest, 
Owen,” said Arthur, with kindly sympathy, “but this is 
bad news you bring us, though it is what I have expected ; 
and now we can only submit to God’s will. To his heavenly 
Father’s care and protection we must commit the dear lad. 
Daily have I prayed for your Philip, Owen, and I have such 
faith in God’s love to his children that I often- feel comforted 
about him. Think of the words of the hymn in Mr. Wesley’s 
little book, which Mary sometimes reads to you, Owen — 

“ ‘ Thine everlasting truth, 

Father, Thy ceaseless love, 

Sees all Thy children’s wants, and knows 

What best for each will prove ; * 

And whatsoe’er Thou will’st 
Thou dost, O King of kings : 

What Thine unerring wisdom chose. 

Thy power to being brings.’ ” 

and this verse too — 

“ ‘ Leave to His sovereign sway 
To choose and to command, 

So shalt Thou wondering own His way. 

How wise, how strong His hand : 

Far, far above thy thought 
His counsel shall appear, 

When fully He the work hath wrought 
That caused thy needless fear,’ ” 


94 The Watchers OJi the Longships. 

Tears flowed down the weather-beaten cheeks of the 
rough sailor as he listened to these words which Arthur 
repeated in an earnest tone, as if he thoroughly realized 
their power and their truth. 

“Ah, sir, it is hard, very hard,” he said, “to lose both 
my wife and my son in so short a time.” 

“Donhsay that they are either of them lost, Owen,” 
said Arthur cheeringly. “ She is not lost but gone before ; 
and as to Philip, by God’s mercy, I trust we shall all see 
him one day again among us. Then, there is Mary left to 
you ; she will do all she can to comfort and help her father, 
won’t you, Mary ? ” 

“Yes, that I will, sir, and father knows it,” said the child 
through her tears. 

The next morning Owen Tresilian and his daughter 
returned to their lonely cottage at the Cove. Few were they 
who showed him any sympathy, or gave him a friendly 
welcome. Most of the men, by their manner and looks, 
gave him to understand that they were sorry to see him • 
among them again, and wished he had never come back. 
Mary, deeply as she felt the loss of her brother, set bravely 
to work to cheer her father, and to render her home as 
comfoifable as possible, but nothing seemed to make up to 
the poor man for the absence of his son. His manner was 
quite changed, he was gloomy and almost morose. With- 
out saying a word to any one he would shove off his boat, 
jump into her, and go out fishing alone for the whole day, 
and whether he caught much or little seemed to have 
no effect upon his spirits. In the evening, when he sat 
mending his nets, Mary would, as she was wont, take 
down the/ big Bible and read to him out ^of it, or some- 
times she would repeat one of Mr. Wesley’s hymns; but 
he seemed to give little heed and to take hardly any interest 
in the sacred words, d'he absence of Philip, the waves of 


A Fruitless Search. 


95 


sorrow which one after another had rolled over him, had 
deeply affected poor Owen’s mind. Still Mary did not 
despair. She was, indeed, the sunlight of that desolate 
home ; she had always a smile ready to welcome her father 
when he returned from his day’s toil. Her affectionate 
greetings and loving embrace almost seemed as if they 
must in time dissipate the gloomy clouds which encircled 
his brow, and pour a cheermg ray of sunshine into his 
afflicted soul. 

Arthur was a frequent visitor at the cottage. Though 
all his efforts had as yet failed to discover what had 
become of Philip, he always spoke to Owen of his son as of 
one who was only absent for a time fighting the battles of 
his country, and who would one day be restored to his 
father and his home. The more he thought of the matter, 
the more confident he felt that his prayers would be 
answered with respect to Philip, and deeply as he regretted 
his capture, and the barbarous circumstances with which it 
had been attended, he felt convinced that the Almighty 
had some wise end in view in permitting it. Repeatedly 
did he, by every means in his power, try to make Owen 
look at the sad event in this light, but the poor father was 
a man of little faith, and that little faith was now as it 
were flickering in the socket, and it was all Arthur could 
do to keep it alive at all. Sorely, indeed, did the good 
clergyman feel that this poor man had been tried, and he 
often endeavored to impress upon him that “whom the 
Lord loveth He chasteneth ; ” and that “ no chastening 
for the present seemeth to be joyous but grievous : never- 
theless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of right- 
eousness unto them which are exercised thereby.” But 
Owen regarded his trials in another way, he chafed and 
repined under God’s chastening. “Why,” he said, “should 
others be spared and allowed to go on prospering, who, 


96 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

instead of trying to lead a good and honest life, were 
getting gains by smuggling, wrecking, and all sorts of evil 
means ? ” He had prayed to God, but he had received no 
answer. He had prayed that his wife might be spared, 
but she now lay in the cold grave. He had prayed that 
his son might be restored to him, but his prayer had not 
been heard, he knew not whether he were alive or dead. 
Like the Psalmist, he envied the prosperity of the wicked, 
but he had not yet learned the truth which the Psalmist 
experienced, he had not patience to wait to see what the end 
of these men would be, 'how “ they are brought into desola- 
tion in a moment, and are utterly consumed with terrors,” 
he could not yet say, “ I waited patiently for the Lord, and 
He inclined unto me, and heard my calling.” But Arthur 
did not despair, he was full of true, earnest sympathy for 
the poor fisherman, and he knew that the day would dawn 
at last when God would make all things plain to him, 
when he would see the bright light which is in the clouds,” 
which he saw not now, and acknowledge that “ His tender 
mercies are over all His works.” 

And thus spring changed into summer, and- then the long, 
warm summer days shortened, and autumn came with its 
equinoctial gales and cheerless skies, heralding the storms 
of the approaching winter. But during this time the light- 
house had made great progress, and by the month of Octo- 
ber, Arthur, and all those interested in this work of true 
humanity, hoped to see the bright, cheering light shine 
over the waste of stormy waters, to warn the mariner of the 
dangerous rocks, and by its cheering beams to tell him of 
his nearness to his home, to the shores of Old England. 


On Board the Fleet, 


97 


CHAPTER IX. 

ON BOARD THE FLEET — THE BATTLE OF THE 
FIRST OF JUNE. 

O Lord, be with us when we sail 
Upon the lonely deep, 

Our guard when on the silent deck 
The midnight watch we keep. 

We need not fear though all around, 

’Mid rising winds, we hear 

The multitude of waters surge, 

For Thou, O God, art near. 

If duty calls from threatened strife 
To guard our native shore, 

And shot and shell are answering 
The booming cannon’s roar ; 

Be Thou the mainguard of our host 
Till war and dangers cease ; 

Defend the right, put up the sword, 

And through the world make peace. 

We must now take leave of our friends at the Land’s End 
for a time, and follow the fortunes of Philip Tresilian. ' 

The three lads, who soon ceased to oiler resistance to 
their captors, were at once taken on board the cutter, and 
put down into the hold. When Dick and Bob protested 
against this, and began to yell, howl, and swear, the captain 
threatened to put them in handcuffs if they showed the • 
slightest violence. Philip was perfectly silent and passive ; 
he was so completely overwhelmed by the suddenness of 


98 The Watch ei's on the Longshifs. 

the blow which had fallen upon him, and which he had 
yet scarcely realized, that he could not utter a word. 

“Well, my lads,^’ said the captain to the men, “you’ve 
done a good day’s work. It’s a long time since we’ve 
caught three finer, stronger looking lads than these. First- 
rate sailors we’ll make out of them, though they all look 
rather down in the mouth just now.” 

“ And a nice piece of work we’ve had to get ’em, I assure 
you,” said the sailor who had been the head of the landing 
' party. “ One of these here chaps is a regular Methodist, 
and a pet of the parson of the place, who is said to be a 
Methodist, too. Whatever' he may be, he’s the straAgest 
parson I’ve seen in all my born days. He’s a young, fine- 
looking fellow of about five-and-twenty, fitter, I should say, 
to be a life-guardsman than a parson, and what does he do 
but come down on the shore, just as we were a-going to 
carry off these young chaps, and he shows fight, too, and 
says we shan’t take off this pet of his. But, strong as 
he was, and determined, too, we were too many for him ; 
so we dragged the chap off, and the parson preached us a 
sermon while we were getting into the boat. Didn’t he 
just, Tom ? ” 

“ Yes, that he did,” said the comrade appealed to, “ and 
gave the lad a book to read to keep up his spirits.” 

“ It’s not often we catch chaps as can read,” said the 
captain. 

“ No, and not much good it’ll do him,” said the sailor. 
“ But, look ye here, captain, this parson says *this ' young 
chap, that he took on so about, isn’t seventeen, and so we’ve 
no right to press him. He’ll move heaven and earth, he 
said, to*^t him released, so the best thing we can do is to 
.make sure of our prize.” 

“We mustn’t put into port, then,” said the captain. 

“No. Sure enough, he’ll be off to Falmouth and 


On Board the Fleet. 


99 


Plymouth to-morrow, to be on the lookout for us, and 
if he gets, as he says, the chap’s father to come and swear 
as he isn’t seventeen, it’ll be all up with us, and we shall 
lose our prize.’’ 

I know what I’ll do. Jack,” said the captain ; the fleet’s 
somewhere in the channel, bearing down for the French 
coast. We must just cruise about, too, till we fall in with 
a man-of-war, then we’ll put these fellows aboard. In these 
days one or other of his majesty’s ships is sure to be short 
of hands, and the admiral will be glad enough to take the 
chaps, and pay us well for ©ur prizes.” 

“Just what I was going to propose, captain,” said the 
other. 

“Very well, then, we’ll lay to here till nightfall, and then 
round the Land’s End, and straight up mid channel till we 
hail his majesty’s fleet.” 

The lads in the hold heard all this conversation, and poor 
Philip’s heart sank within him. He felt that he must now 
bid farewell to all hope of release. Oh ! had he only been 
allowed to take leave of his father and sister, just to see 
them once more, it would have made his hard fate more 
endurable ! But, no ; he had parted from his dear sister 
somewhat sulkily he felt, then he had yielded to a temptation 
he ought to have withstood in accompanying the other two 
lads, he had been vacillating and weak, he had known what 
was right and done what was wrong, and alas ! now there 
was no means of repairing his fault. He buried his face in 
his hands and sobbed aloud. Should he ever see his father, 
his sister, the good parson, his home again ? and what a 
hard lot was in prospect for him, how different from that 
of a quiet fisherman in the remote little Cornish village. 

His two companions took no notice of his grief ; they 
remained sullen and morose. They, too, saw that there 
was no escape for them. Their anger and vexation arose 


ICO The Watc/iers on the Lojigships. 

from a different motive. Instead of leading a lazy easy life 
at Sennen, they would now be submitted to the severest 
discipline, and to all sorts of hardships. Dick, the idlest 
and most mischievous lad in the village, who thought him- 
self his own master, and never was accustomed to obey any 
one, would now be forced to submit to authority. Bob was 
not such a bad fellow, lazy enough he certainly was, but 
he was kind-hearted and had some affection left for his 
mother, though at times he caused her a great deal of trouble. 
He began to feel now that she would miss him, and to re- 
gret much of his unkindness and undutifulness towards her. 

In the hold of the cutter were seven other men and lads, 
who had been pressed at various places on the coast where 
the press-gang had landed. Some of these, being respectable 
men, were silent and depressed ; others, who were bad and 
desperate fellows, swore and scoffed, and delighted in mock- 
ing at the grief of the newcomers. 

At night the cutter weighed anchor, and, favored by a 
fair wind, sailed round the Landes End and made for the 
English Channel. Philip, overcome by his sorrow, sank 
into a heavy slumber and did not awake till dawn next 
morning. 

A fresh breeze sprang up as the sun rose, which increased 
during the day. Towards evening, in the rays of the setting 
sun, they perceived the fleet in full sail bearing down upon 
them. To lie to and run up a signal was the next step. A 
boat was put out from one of the men-of-war ships, and rowed 
up to the cutter. As the captain had expected, they were 
only too glad of fresh hands, so long as the men were strong 
and healthy, and not unfitted for a seafaring life. Their 
ship, the^‘ Royal Sovereign,’’ they said, had been obliged to 
sail from Portsmouth without her full complement, though 
every possible effort had been made by impressment and 
Other means to obtain men. It was arranged that the cutter 


On Board the Fleet. 


lOI 


should sail up as close as possible to the “ Royal Sovereign/’ 
on board which the men should be sent to undergo the usual 
inspection ; those who were considered capable would be 
enrolled among her crew, but if they were not so the cutter 
was to land them at the nearest English port. This was 
done. Two out of the ten, one a lad, the other a man of 
about five-and-thirty, were rejected as too weakly for service. 
The other eight, Philip among them, had to remain on 
board the “Royal Sovereign.” Some, however, as the 
whole fleet was short-handed, were subsequently drafted on 
board other vessels, among those was Philip’s companion, 
Dick. 

And now quite a new life began for Philip, a rough one 
it was certainly, but the lad had learned to feel that he 
must submit without murmuring to a fate which was inevita- 
ble. He regretted, indeed, his happy home, his kind father 
and loving sister, and he grieved when he thought how hard 
it would be for them never to get any news of him. But, 
like a brave English lad, he determined, God helping him, 
to do his duty in that state of life to which, by no wish or 
act of his own, he had been called ; he would try to become 
a gallant seaman, and be an honor to his father and his 
country. 

When he first went between decks on board the man-of- 
war, had his hammock pointed out to him, and mingled with 
his messmates, he perceived at once with what a rough set 
he had been cast ; still, with the hopefulness of youth, he 
trusted that there might be some honest fellows among 
them, who, like himself, had been pressed into the service 
against their will. The oaths, the vile language which 
greeted his ear, surpassed anything he had heard from 
the very worst characters at Sennen. This was, indeed, to 
be expected, for there was a proverb in those days “ that 
a king’s ship and the gallows refused nobody,” and really 


102 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


honest tars were obliged to number among their messmates 
jail-birds and felons. Philip set about his work quietly and 
unobtrusively, hoping that he would be let alone and lost 
in the crowd. His comjDanion, Bob, kept as close to him 
as possible ; the unexpected trouble which had come upon 
him had softened this lad considerably ; he was by na 
means of a bad disposition, and already, as he told Philip, 
deeply regretted the cowardly and deceitful part he had 
played in the plot which had led to Philip’s capture, and 
with it to his own. As soon, too, as he was removed from 
Dick’s evil influence he became more friendly with Philip, 
so that the lads were much together. 

Those were stirring and anxious days, not in England 
only, but all over Europe, The horrors and crimes of the 
French Revolution had startled and disgusted the civilized 
world. When at last the wretched mob who ruled in Paris 
had performed the crowning act of infamy, and sent their 
king, Louis XVI., to the scaffold, shortly to be followed by 
his heroic wife, Marie Antoinette, and his saintly sister, 
Madame Elizabeth, all the powers of Europe, Great Britain 
included, declared war against the French Republic, 
and in the year 1793 a fearful struggle commenced, 
which, with little interruption, lasted for two-and-twenty 
years. 

Twenty-one line of battle ships and several frigates had 
been put into commission early in the year. This fleet, 
which was subsequently increased, was placed under the 
command of Lord Howe, one. of the ablest admirals of the 
day. For more than a month it had been cruising in the 
channel, and was escorting 9. number of merchant vessels 
clear of the Lizard, when it had been met by the press-gang 
cutter. Lord Howe was keeping a sharp lookout for a large 
French fleet, which he expected either had, or shortly would, 
put out from Brest. The Republican government had, after 


On Board the Fleet. 


103 


much exertion, fitted out this fleet, consisting of twenty-six 
ships of the line, and as a famine was raging in the country, 
they were eagerly on the watch for the arrival of a convoy 
of 350 sail from American ports laden with provisions. 
Earl Howe^s object was first to capture or destroy this con- 
voy, and secondly to fight the Brest fleet. From the crews 
of several vessels he had captured, he obtained accurate 
information of the enemy’s movements ; and finding that 
the French fleet had actually put to sea, he was determined 
to engage it as soon as possible. 

The ‘‘ Royal Sovereign,” on board which .were Philip 
and Bob, was one of the finest line of battle-ships in Earl 
Howe’s fleet. As both the lads were strong and active, 
and from earliest childhood accustomed to a seafaring life, 
they soon fell into the duties allotted them, and in a few 
days could climb the rigging and reef the sails as handily 
as if they Fad been a year in the service. But it was not 
long before Philip’s quiet, sober manner attracted the at- 
tention, and drew upon him the ridicule, of his messmates. 
Not to swear or use bad language was alone enough in those 
days to render a lad peculiar on board ship, and as an oath 
or a filthy word had never been heard to escape Philip’s 
lips, he soon became the butt of the profane and ill-natured 
among the crew. It was not often that he got a chance of 
reading a few verses out of the Testament which had been 
the last gift of the clergyman ; he could only do so when 
no one was near to observe him, as, if discovered, he would 
have to encounter, besides ridicule, the danger of losing 
his precious book. One evening in the twilight, retiring to 
a remote corner of the deck, when he perceived that most 
of the crew appeared to be occupied in their own affairs, 
he drew out the little book, and sopn became deeply im- 
mersed in the sacred story. Suddenly he was interrupted 
by a gruff voice behind him ; he looked up with a start of 


104 Watc/icrs on the Lougships. 

terror, and saw a rough tar who was distinguished above 
the rest for his brutality and profanity. 

“ What have you got there, lad ? ’’ he said with an oath. 
‘‘ Reading, indeed, and setting yourself up above fellows 
like us who never learned a letter in our lives ! ” 

Philip immediately put the book safely away into the 
pocket of his jacket, and replied, quietly, — 

“ It’s a book that was given me before I left home ; 
surely it can’t do any harm to any one, my reading it ; 
and I don’t want to set myself up above any one else, 
I’m sure.” 

And what’s the book about, and what’s the name of it, 
you young vagabond ? ” said the man. 

“ It’s a New Testament,” said Philip. 

“ A Testament ! ” cried the sailor, with a volley of oaths ; 
“ a Testament, why, then, you must be a Methodist, you 
rascal ; who ever heard of any one on board ship reading 
a Testament ? That kind of thing’s not allowed here, 
you’ll soon find out, my fine chap ; ” then he hallooed out 
to the group of men nearest to them, I say, messmates, 
come here, we’ve got a young rascal here who can read, 
and is a regular Methodist into the bargain. Here’s fine 
fun for you.” 

The men were all attention at once ; they gathered 
round poor Philip, who felt both abashed and troubled. 
Hitherto he had managed to avoid notice, now he felt the 
time had come when his faith would be put on trial. He 
prayed to God to give him strength and courage not to 
deny his Saviour, but to act as bravely in defence of His 
cause as he would in that of his earthly sovereign. 

A Melodist, indeed ! ” exclaimed the men, with a loud 
shout of derisive laughter. 

‘‘ We’ll soon drive these notions out of your head, my 
lad,” said one of the boatswain’s mates, who, as one of 


On Board the Fleet. 


lOS 

his chief duties was to inflict the punishment of the cat — 
only too frequent an occurrence on board that ship — was 
utterly hardened to all feelings of humanity or kindness. 

‘‘Young chaps like that shouldn’jt be allowed to waste 
their time over books on board a man-of-war,” remarked 
another sailor. 

“ Nor to fill their heads with such rubbish,” said a third. 

“No fellows are such cctwards as Methodists, sure to 
flinch before the enemy, and to hide themselves in the 
hold if they can get away during a battle,” observed 
another of the group. 

“ Come on, give us up that book,” said Edwards, the 
man who had been the origin of all the disturbance, ad- 
dressing Philip in an authoritative tone. 

“No, I shall not,” said Philip, firmly. “ The book be- 
longs to me, and youVe no right to take it from me.” 

“Well, you are a cheeky young vagabond. Ifll teach 
you how to speak to your superiors. Right, indeed ! we’ll 
soon see who’s right here. Come, give us up the book, or 
the worse for you,” declared the man angrily. 

But Philip showed no signs of giving way. 

“ Give it up, I say,” roared Edwards again, with a fear- 
ful oath ; and the other men who stood round all shouted 
in chorus, “Yes, give it up, or we’ll make you ! ” 

“Well, then,” said Philip, “you may take it if you can, 
but I will not give it up to you, for you’ve no right to it.” 

Edwards, now furious with passion, seized Philip by the 
arm and dragged him along the deck. Meanwhile the 
boatswain’s mate, and several of the worst disposed among 
the men, kicked and cuffed the poor lad unmercifully. 

“ Now will you give it up ? ” cried Edwards. 

“ Never ! ” said Philip as decidedly as ever. 

Edwards and another man proceeded to force the book 
out of Philip’s possession ; they held him down on the 


io6 The Watchers ou the Longships. 

deck, but he kept his arms tightly clasped over his breast, 
in which his Testament was concealed. 

“You won’t hold out long now, I’ll warrant,” said 
Edwards, accompanyuig the words with a series of cuffs 
and blows which rendered his victim nearly unconscious. 

Just at this momont Bob, who had been employed at the 
further end of the ship, and whose work was now done, 
came upon deck, and perceiving the crowd and hearing the 
noise, hurried to the scene of action. There, to his horror 
and indignation, he saw Philip, bleeding and prostrate, 
while several strong sailors were belaboring him on every 
side, and evidently trying to get something out of his grasp, 
which he was determined not to give up. Naturally im- 
petuous, and fearless of consequences, when he saw the 
only friend he had on board in trbuble, he pushed his way 
through the crowd in spite of every obstacle, bent over 
Philip, wiped away the blood which was flowing from his 
face, and exclaimed in an angry voice, 

“ I say, messmates, fak play ; what has the fellow done 
that you should treat him like this } ” 

“ Why, there are two of them, then,” said Edwards, with 
a wild burst of laughter ; “ another Methodist, are you ? 
Yes, I remember you both came aboard the same day. 1 
suppose you’ve got a Testament, too ; well, you’ll have to 
give it up as well as your mate here.” 

“I’m not a Methodist, and I’ve got no Testament,” said 
Bob, “ but he’s my friend, and there ought to be fair play.” 

“ The impudent young beggar,” said Edwards in a fury, 
as leaving Philip he sprang upon poor Bob, and dealt him 
such a number of blows, that he soon rolled down utterly 
senseless^bn the deck. It was small use Philip springing to 
his feet, to try and defend his comrade, he was soon seized 
and the Testament was at last, notwithstanding all his 
efforts, wrenched from him. 


On Board the Fleet. 


107 


The poor lads were now completely overpowered, and as 
they lay on the deck their cowardly foes amused them- 
selves by kicking them. At that moment, however, a 
quartermaster appeared, who was noted equally for his 
justice and severity. Edwards, who had got possession of 
the Testament, W2ls debating with his companions as to 
what should be done with it, and was on the point of 
throwing it overboard, when the quartermaster demanded 
an explanatioft of this disturbance. He glanced angrily, 
now at Edwards, now at the prostrate forms of the two lads, 
whom he perceived at once had been severely handled. 

“ Now, then, my lad,’^ said he to Bob, who was with diffi- 
culty attempting to rise, “ tell me the truth, what’s all this 
row been about ? ” 

Bob explained as well as he could, and as Philip was 
beginning to revive, the quartermaster soon made out the 
story. The ruffianly character of Edwards was well known 
to him, the breach of discipline and order he and his mates 
had committed well deserved a flogging, but just then, as 
an important action was daily expected, they escaped with 
a severe reprimand, and a command to give up the book, 
which the officer restored to Philip, remarking, that he must 
keep it to himself, and not be seen reading it on deck, for 
no Methodist was allowed aboard ship. 

Edwards sauntered off with a growl of suppressed rage, 
vov^ng vengeance against Philip and Bob. The two lads 
were henceforth greater friends than ever. 

The hostile fleets frequently sighted one another, and 
a battle evidently was imminent, only, indeed, delayed by 
the thick fog which every now and then came down upon 
the sea and hid them from each other. At last, on the 
first of June, a day noted as glorious in the annals of the 
British navy, the sun shone forth with unwonted splendor, 
and disclosed the French fleet steering in order of battle 
and ready for the combat. 


io8 The Watchers on the Longships, 

There was great enthusiasm on board every vessel in the 
English fleet, the ‘‘ Royal Sovereign” among the number, 
and Philip and Bob looked eagerly forward to the struggle. 
At seven in the morning. Lord Howe signalled that he 
should attack the enemy^s centre and break through their line. 
The crews were now piped for breakfast, 1 ;he drums beat, 
and all hands got ready for action. Each ship was ordered to 
steer for and engage the ship opposed to her in the enemy^s 
line, keeping to leeward of her antagonist, so that if 
worsted she could not get away. Six of the ships succeeded 
in breaking through the compact line of the French fleet ; 
the first of these was the ‘‘ Defence,” and the next the 
“ Queen Charlotte,” the flag-ship, with the admiral. Lord 
Howe, on board. He gave orders to his pilot to lay him 
alongside the “ Montagne,” of 120 guns, the largest 
vessePin the French line, and directed that till then not a 
shot should be fired, though in passing she received the 
fire of the “ Vengeur ” and the “ Achille.” With awful force 
did the admiral, at last, pour his whole broadside into the 
stern of the “ Montagne ” as he passed between that huge 
three-decker, and the “ J acobin,” of 80 guns. So close were 
the ships on this occasion that the great tricolor which 
waved on the “ Montagne ” flagstaff touched the ratlins 
of the “Queen Charlotte,” and so terrible was the effect 
of the AdmiraPs broadside that the decks of the French 
vessels were drenched in bloody and strewed with the bodies 
of 300 killed and wounded. 

The other vessels of the British fleet were, meanwhile, 
engaged in as desperate encounters with the remaining 
French ships. But we will confine ourselves to the “ Royal 
Sovereign/' on board which were our two friends. 

After having been struck by several shots, she bore down 
upon the “ Terrible ” and commenced firing at her. Her 
batteries promptly answered in return. An awful struggle 


The Battle of the First of yime. 109 

now ensued, the vessels came to close quarters and opened 
their broadsides on each other, pouring shot upon their 
decks, which were soon strewn with the dying and the 
dead. But on board the English ship every man did his 
duty bravely, all stood to their guns. Some of the young 
lads, indeed, and a few of the men, too, who had been so 
recently impressed, could hardly repress a shudder at the 
sight of the carnage around them. It was the first time they 
had been face to face with death. Philip, when he saw the 
first man who was struck down carried ofi bleeding to the 
cockpit, thought involuntarily of his home, of his father, 
and his sister, whom, perhaps, he would never see again ; 
but he breathed one short earnest prayer to his Father 
above, to shield him in the danger, and to give him a 
brave heart in the terrible combat, arrcl then he stood un- 
flinchingly at his post till the end. His conduct was not 
unobserved by some of his superiors. In the very midst 
of the engagement Admiral Graves, his commander, was 
badly wounded, and carried off the deck ; and the charge of 
the Royal Sovereign ’’ devolved on Captain Nichols. But 
still the battle raged, the main and mizen masts of the 
enemy were shot away, but she did not give up, bravely 
continuing the struggle, till perceiving that further resist- 
ance was useless, and that she might still effect an escape, 
she bore away, the ‘‘ Royal Sovereign ’’ in pursuit of her. 
Other ships which came to her aid were beaten off, and the 
“ Royal Sovereign hauled up as well as the disabled state 
of her sails and rigging would permit. 

It was a grand victory ! Ten of the French line had 
struck, though only six had been secured, and five of their 
ships were dismasted and slowly going off under their sprit- 
sails. They had 690 men killed and 580 wounded, whereas 
the English had only 68 killed and 129 wounded. 

During the battle Philip and Bob had been posted at 


no The Watchers on the Longships. 

a long distance from each other. Philip often longed for 
a word with Bob, and would now and then strain his eyes 
in the direction where he knew he was, hoping to get a 
glimpse of him. 

But smoke and fire constantly obscured his view, and he 
could see nothing of his friend. Desperate as the battle had 
been, it did not last long ; and the first thing Philip thought 
of, when he had a moment’s liberty, was to seek for Bob. 
He traversed the deck, sad marks of the recent carnage 
everywhere meeting his view. It was a sickening sight. 
Bob was nowhere to be seen. Philip’s heart began to sink 
within him, he scarcely dared to ask for information about his 
friend. At last he summoned up courage to consult a marine 
who was stationed on guard very near the spot where he 
knew that Bob had been posted. 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” was the reply. “ I remember a young fellow 
about your age and size. He stood there by yonder gun ; 
he fought well, but towards the close of the battle he was 
badly wounded, shot in the breast, I believe, and carried 
below. It isn’t likely you’ll find him alive now, but you’d 
better go down into the cockpit and look around.” 

Terrible groans and sighs met his ear as he descended 
the ladder into the cockpit. The pale flickering light of a 
lantern which hung from the roof increased the ghastliness 
of the scene. Surgeons were everywhere at work. The 
agony which was depicted on many faces was enough to 
touch the hardest heart. Not a few sufferers were already 
stiffening in death, while many, alas ! even in their last 
hour, were breathing oaths and curses against the enemy, 
or blaspheming the hard fate which had cut them down in 
the full vigor of life and in the hour of victory. 

Philip shuddered at the sight he beheld, and the sounds 
he heard, but with a keen and eager glance to the right 
and the left he quickly made his way amcmg the dying and 


r 


The Battle of the First of yune. 1 1 1 

the dead, expecting in every face to recognize the well- 
known features of his friend. He began to think he had 
been misinformed, for nowhere could he discern Bob 
among the wounded, till, reaching the very farthest end of 
the cockpit, he perceived, in a corner, by the faint light of a 
lamp, a form which was just about Bob’s size. Could this 
be he } He bent over him ; his face was turned away, it 
was very pale and '.his eyes were closed. Yes, there was 
no doubt of it now. It was Bob, but whether alive or 
dead Philip could not tell. 

‘‘ Bob,” he said to him in a low voice, “ Bob, is it you ? ” 

The boy opened his eyes and tried with difficulty to turn 
his head round towards Philip, then the reply came in a 
faint voice. 

“ O Philip, thank God that you have come. How did 
you find me out here ? ” 

“ I searched the ship for you. Bob, as soon as the battle 
was over, and when I could not find you, I asked the 
sentry near where you were posted, and he told me that 
you had been wounded, so I hurried d(5wn here as fast as 
I could to look for you. But, tell me, are you very bad. 
Bob?” 

Yes, I am done for, Philip, shot in the side. The sur- 
geon has just been to me. The ball can’t be extracted, 
and he says it’s only a question of an hour or so.” 

“O Bob ! ” replied Philip, with a burst of anguish. “ It 
can’t be true, the surgeon has made a mistake, — they do 
sometimes, it mayn’t be so bad as you think.” 

‘‘No hope, Phil,” he replied, in an utterly despairing and 
very faint tone. “No hope. Oh, my poor mother! I shall 
never see her again ; how she will fret, for I am her only 
child, torn away from her, too, without even saying fare- 
well, or asking her pardon for all my undutiful conduct. 
We’ve won the victory, Phil, haven’t we I ah 1 I’m glad of 


1 12 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

that ; and you’ll tell mother about me, and ask her to for- 
give me the trouble I’ve given her. And, Philip, you’ll 
forgive me, too, won’t you ? ” 

‘‘Forgive you. Bob? I’ve nothing to forgive,” said Philip. 

“Nothing, Phil? Not for joining in that wicked plot 
with Dick and Nichols and the rest, to get you pressed, 
just to spite your father and the parson ? ” 

“ Don’t talk of that. Bob. I’ve forgotten your share in 
it long ago. You were over-persuaded by the others; 
don’t think of it again.” 

“Ah, Phil,” he sighed, “it can’t last much longer now, I 
feel weaker every minute. I’m going to die and what’ll 
become of my soul ? I’ve been a bad lad, Philip, not good 
and steady like you.” 

“ Don’t call me good. Bob, I’ve been anything but that. 
But think of Jesus who died for you. He’s waiting for you 
above, and if you believe in Him, and trust Him, you will 
go to a happier and a better place.” 

“ He won’t have me, Phil. I’ve not served Him as you 
have. I’ve told lies, and sworn, and done many bad things 
beside. I used to laugh at the parson down in Sennen, 
and never went to church except that once.” 

“ That may be, Bob, but if you’re only sorry for your 
sins, as our parson’s often told me, and as it says here in 
this Testament, God will forgive you for Jesus Christ’s 
sake. Did you never hear the story of the thief on the 
cross ? ” ^ 

“ I don’t recollect as ever I did.” 

“I’ll just read it to you, then,” said Philip; and he took 
out his Testament and read slowly and earnestly that 
beautifuWnd touching story. The tears rolled down Bob’s 
pale cheeks. “Now, Bob,” he said, when he had finished, 
“think that the Lord Jesus is saying those words to you, 
‘To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.’” 


The Battle of the First of yune. 113 

Raise me up a little, Phil; I feel that Pm choking,” 
said the poor boy, a cold perspiration coming over his fore- 
head. “ Thank you,” he added, in broken accents ; that 
is more comfortable. Now, I shall die in your arms. Yes, 
it is quite true what you say. Jesus loved sinners, and 
gave Himself for them. So, perhaps. He’ll save me like 
that poor thief. Read some more, please.” 

Philip found the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and read the 
parable of the prodigal son, that wonderful story of Our 
Father’s love, which has cheered so many sin-burdened 
and desponding souls. 

Eagerly did the dying sailor-lad drink in every word as 
it fell from his friend’s lips ; he felt that even for him there 
was hope of another life in the world to come. 

When he had finished, he said — “Were not those the 
words the parson began the service with that day, Phil? 
‘ I will arise and go to my father.’ ” 

“Yes, Bob, that’s right.” 

“ That’s what I want to do now, Phil, to arise and go to 
the Father in Heaven as you’ve told me of. Good-bye, 
Phil,” he murmured after a pause. “You’ll see my mother, 
and tell her — Lord remember me” 

He did not finish the sentence. His spirit — may we 
not hope — had already passed into Paradise. 

For some time Philip sat by the side of the earthly re- 
mains of his departed friend, his face buried in his hands, 
and quite absorbed by his grief. The death of poor Bob 
was a terrible blow. He had been the only link which 
bound Philip to his home, the sole friend he possessed on 
board that crowded ship. Henceforth he must bear his 
burdens, his sorrow, his home-sickness, alone; he would 
not again be cheered by Bob’s kindly face and hearty 
good-natured sympathy. His lot was a harder one than 
cver^now; how could he bear it? 


1 14 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

He was roused from the stupor of his grief by the rough 
voice of one of the petty officers. 

“ What are you after down here, my lad ? he exclaimed, 
as he observed Philip sitting in the corner of the cockpit ; 
‘‘go aloft and join your watch at once. What’s all this 
snivelling and drivelling about ? oh, I see ! ” he continued, 
as he observed Bob’s lifeless body, “been attending to a 
friend who won’t give you any more trouble, plain enough, 
so don’t loiter here any longer, d’ye hear ! ” 

Philip knew he must obey. He took one last parting 
look at Bob’s beloved features, calm and placid in death, 
and making a desperate effort to stifle his grief, returned 
to the deck and to his ordinary duty. 

A still, starlight night succeeded that eventful day — a 
sad memorable one it had been to Philip; for the first 
time he had witnessed and taken part in an engagement, 
and beheld the pomp and gloiy^, as well as the horrors of 
war. 

And now that the din of battle was over, and the traces 
of carnage banished from the deck, Philip stood at his 
post on the forecastle, and gazed up at the bright stars, 
and listened to the sea gently rippling round the keel, and 
reviewed in the stillness the events of the day. All did 
not appear so dark to him now ; he seemed to see God’s 
purpose in allowing him ai)d his comrades to be torn away 
from friends and home. Had Bob remained at Sennen 
among his bad associates he would probably have become 
more and more like them, and been hardened in sin and 
wickedness ; but the sudden trial had softened his heart, 
causing him, while on board of the man-of-war, to show 
not onlyixi brave spirit, but an inclination to listen to bet- 
ter things. It seemed to dawn upon him now, that Bob 
and he had been thrown together on board that ship, that 
he might be the means of leading his friend back to the 


The Battle of the First of fune. 1 1 5 

Father from whom he had wandered, and pointing him at 
his last hour to Him who saith, Come unto Me, all ye 
that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” 
And in all the dangers of the day God had protected him ; 
His fatherly hand had been outstretched to guard and 
shelter him from the enemy^s fire. The words of the psalm, 
the last he had heard sung in the little village church at 
home, came back now forcibly to his mind, and he felt 
how truly they had hitherto been fulfilled in his case. 

‘‘At home, abroad, in peace, in war, 

Thy God shall thee defend ; 

Conduct thee through life’s pilgrimage 
Safe to thy journey’s end.” 

At dawn of day the bodies of those who had fallen 
gloriously fighting for their country in the famous battle of 
the first of June were, with full honors, committed to the 
deep. Among these departed heroes was Bob. When the 
solemn words were spoken, and the sea received those mor- 
tal remains “ to keep till the day when she shall give up 
her dead,” Philip could not restrain his tears. To him the 
separation and the loss were bitter, indeed ; but he cheered 
himself with the thought of the happiness and rest his 
friend was now enjoying in that Paradise into which he 
felt assured that he had entered. 


ii6 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE FIRST WATC'HER ON THE LONGSHIPS. 

“ The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain ; 

And steadily against its solid form 
Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.” 

— Longfellow. 

The long bright summer was drawing to an end, the days 
were gradually closing in. Autumn, with its gloomy skies, 
its dense fogs, and furious equinoctial gales, was nigh 
at hand. The lighthouse on the Longships Rock was all 
but completed, a fine summer having favored the workmen. 
Mr. Smith, who supplied the means, had, at the urgent 
entreaty of Arthur Pendrean, vigorously pressed on the 
work, in the hope that ere winter and dark nights set in, a 
warning light might send forth its friendly beams to the 
mariner, pointing out the maze of treacherous rocks which 
girded that rugged coast. 

One beautiful September afternoon, just before the sun 
sank in all his glory of gold and crimson into the sparkling 
sea, Arthur Pendrean stood alone at the extreme point of 
the Land’s End, and gazed with mingled feelings of pride 
and gratitude at the slender column of strong granite 
masonry which, about two miles distant, rose a solitary 
object in the midst of the green waters. 

Proud, indeed, the young parson might be of this structure, 
for it was mainly owing to his own perseverance and indomit- 
able energy that it had been raised. The scheme had been 
in his mind for years; he had been baffled and opposecl in 


The First Watc/ier. 


II/ 

everyway ; but now, at last, he had^gained his object. But 
in his pride and pleasure he did ^ forget to thank Him 
without whose aid and gracious permission not a stone 
could have been laid, who had prospered the work by grant- 
ing fair weather, who had protected the workmen from 
accidents, and who, above all, had put it into the hearts of 
men to provide the money for an enterprise at once so costly 
and so benevolent. 

That was a happy day in the young clergyman’s life, for 
the work was now, so far as the masonry was concerned, 
completed ; the gear and the lanterns had, indeed, yet to be 
supplied; while the important question of who was to 
perform the office of lighthouse-keeper was still undecided, 
Arthur trusted that all in good time this would be settled 
also. He was standing on a spot where he often loved to 
meditate, to look back on the past and forward to the 
future ; before him was the vast expanse of ocean, now 
calm and smooth as a mirror ; behind him was the gray 
barren moorland, all so still and quiet, not a sound to be 
heard but the thud of the waves against the rocks below, 
and the shrill cries of the sea-birds whose nests were in the 
cliffs around. It was here on this very spot that Charles 
Wesley had composed a hymn, a favorite of Arthur’s, and 
very popular with the Cornish folk. 

“ Lo ! on a narrow neck of land, 

’Twixt two unbounded seas, I stand 
Secure, insensible ! 

A point of time, a moment's space, 

Removes me to that heavenly place 
Or shuts me up in hell. 

O God, my inmost soul convert. 

And deeply on my thoughtful heart 
Eternal things impress ; 

Give me to feel their solemn weight, 

And tremble on the brink of fate. 

And wake to righteousness.” 


ii8 The Watchers on the Longships. 

Much as Arthur had to be thankful for, and many as were 
his causes of rejoicing, there was yet enough to make him 
feel sad. A glorious thing, indeed, he felt it was to be 
allowed to work for God ; but he grieved at the very little 
he had been able to accomplish for his Master during the 
time he had been allowed to labor in His vineyard. How 
few, comparatively, were the souls won to God ; here and 
there, indeed, he could point to one or two who showed 
signs of repentance and conversion, who were striving to 
lead a better life ; but, on the other hand, the notorious evil- 
doers seemed to be growing worse, more hardened and 
desperate, more bitter in their opposition to all his efforts 
to benefit their souls or bodies. It was a hard struggle 
he knew that he had to look forward to, but he must thank 
God and take courage. 

Full of these thoughts, Arthur now turned homewards. 
In a month’s time he hoped that the lighthouse would be 
provided with all that was requisite, but unless an honest 
and trustworthy keeper could be found, the whole under- 
taking would prove a failure. Intimidation from the 
stronger party — those who had from the first been op- 
posed to the scheme, because it must interfere with their 
godless gains — was sufficient to prevent any of the more 
well-disposed men at the Cove from accepting the office. 

Since the loss of his son, Owen Tresilian had sunk into 
a deep melancholy, from which nothing seemed able to 
rouse him. His brave little daughter did her utmost to 
cheer her father, and to brighten by her smiles and loving 
attention his solitary heart. But rarely, indeed, was she re- 
warded. As usual, she would read to him out of the great 
family ^ible, choosing the most consoling passages, those 
especially which spoke of the love and tender care of our 
Father in Heaven. 

Arthur constantly visited the cottage, he always spoke 


The First Watcher, 


119 

hopefully of Philip, he reminded the desponding father 
that Philip’s name had never appeared among any lists of 
killed and wounded, so that they might reasonably trust 
he was safe, and likely to become an honor to his family 
and his country. The day might come ere long when he 
would once more be restored to his home, and they would 
then be shown clearly that God’s way was the best way, 
and that He had had some wise purpose in permitting the 
son and brother to be dragged away so ruthlessly from 
them. But Owen could not be brought to acknowledge 
this, he repined at his hard lot, he cOuld not humbly resign 
himself to the Divine will. 

When Arthur again spoke to him on the subject of the 
lighthouse, Owen told him plainly that he could not and 
would not leave Mary ; she was his only treasure and 
comfort now. In his present melancholy state, too, the 
young clergyman felt that Owen might be almost driven 
to insanity if shut up alone in the lighthouse ; for in stormy 
weather he would be days without any communication with 
the shore. He had, therefore, given up for the present all 
idea of Tresilian being the keeper, and latterly had not 
alluded to the subject in conversation with him. 

All over the country Arthur had ordered inquiries to 
be made for a suitable man to fill the important office. 
Several, attracted by the large pay, had volunteered their 
services ; but all were found on examination to be in some 
way unfit. But the day following that on which Arthur 
had regarded with so much satisfaction from the Land’s 
End the completed work, he received a letter from Pen- 
zance, which informed him that a man had offered himself 
for the vacant post who seemed in every way fitting. He 
had been a preventive man on the coast, was about fifty 
years of age, a widower, of robust constitution and very 
steady character. Mr. Smith, Arthur was informed, was 


120 TJie Watchers on the Longs hips. 

thoroughly convinced that this man, Stephen Jordan, was 
competent and suitable to act as lighthouse-keeper on the 
Longships, his testimonials being excellent. Arthur, as 
may^well be imagined, rejoiced when he received these 
welcome tidings ; he rode over to Penzance next day, 
where he saw Jordan, and was quite satisfied with him. 
In a fortnight’s time it was settled that he was to come to 
Sennen and enter on his duties ; the lantern and other 
gear he hoped would then be fixed in their places. 

It soon got wind among the Sennen folk, that a man 
had at last been found who would consent to live at 
the Longships ; this was bad news to most of them, for, 
latterly, they had consoled themselves with the idea that 
though the lighthouse was now built no one would ever 
dare to take up his abode there. They vowed vengeance 
against the coming keeper, against the parson, and against 
Mr. Smith, all three of whom, they said, had contrived 
together to enrich themselves at the expense of the poor 
fishermen of Sennen Cove. Was not Mr. Smith to levy 
a toll on every vessel that passed ? And doubtless the 
parson would get his share of the profits. The light- 
house, too, would also probably avert wrecks during the 
winter, and leave them to depend only upon fishing and 
smuggling. All Arthur’s endeavors to conciliate these 
men were futile. They would not listen to argument or 
reason. They received him with scowling looks and sup- 
pressed curses. Some half-dozen of the worst men, with 
Nichols as their ringleader, had leagued together to foil 
hhn in every possible manner, to place every obstacle in 
the way^f carrying stores to, and communicating with, 
the lighthouse, and to persecute and vex, by every means 
in their power, any one in the neighborhood who was 
at all friendly with the parson or who favored his 
schemes. 


The Tli'st Wiitc/ier. 


I2I 


The lanterns and reflectors had arrived, as well as all the 
necessary furniture for the lighthouse. The government, 
who warmly took up the project, had, at the request of Arthur 
and Mr. Smith, sent down several preventive men to aid in 
the conveyance of these articles to the lighthouse, as so few 
of the Sennen people could be relied upon. Jordan, too, 
came shortly after ; but Arthur, fearing that he might be 
exposed to severe personal violence from the Cove men, 
kept him at the manor house. 

Stormy weather for several days prevented all communi- 
cation with the Longships ; but at last the winds moderated, 
and the sea once more became as calm as it ever can be 
along that coast, so strewn with rocks and agitated by 
conflicting currents. 

It was necessary, immediately, to profit by such an 
opportunity, which at that time of year might not occur 
again for a long time. Early in the morning, therefore, on 
the 29th September, the lanterns were shipped in Owen’s 
fishing boat, another boat belonging to the preventive 
service following with stores and furniture. 

Arthur himself determined to visit the lighthouse on 
this occasion, and accompanied Owen in his boat, Jordan 
being in the other, which was manned by the coast-guard. 
Two men only had been found who, on the promise of a 
large reward, consented to help Owen in his boat, and one 
of these did not belong to Sennen. 

A crowd of men and boys had gathered on the beach to 
witness their departure. They greeted the party with yells 
of execration, curses, and insults, but they were powerless 
either to injure them or to hinder their departure. 

At low water the Carn-Brds rock, on which the light- 
house stands, emerges forty-five feet above the sea 
level. 

Landing here is always difficult, owing to the surf which 


\22 TJie Watchers on the Longships, 

dashes round the rock, and the swirl of the sea caused by 
the fierce currents which rage round the multitude of granite 
islets on every side. Caution and skilful navigation were, 
therefore, necessary to approach the rock, and when at last 
they reached it their difficulties seemed but to have com- 
menced, for to land and remove the boat^s cargo to the 
lighthouse was no easy work. 

Favored, however, by the smoothness of the sea, they 
succeeded, after many hours’ labor, in conveying every- 
thing they had brought to the rock. The lanterns, nine- 
teen in number, with their reflectors, were carried into the 
cupola of the lighthouse, and the stores into the room below. 
The lamps were Argand burners, the latest invention, then 
considered very brilliant, but vastly inferior to the splendid 
lights which now on all sides flash out around our coasts. 
A bed, a table and chair, with a few oth^ necessary articles 
of furniture, had been brought for the use of the lighthouse- 
keeper, as well as a goodly stock of provisions, in case 
continued bad weather should interrupt communication 
with the shore. 

It was late in the afternoon before the work was com- 
pleted, and Arthur Pendrean and the men who accompanied 
him prepared to quit the rock, and leave Jordan in his 
solitary home. Before they sailed away Arthur solemnly 
thanked God for having permitted them to accomplish their 
work, and prayed that His blessing might rest on the light- 
house, and enable it to be the means of saving many lives. 
He asked that the Holy Angels, whose Festival they that 
day celebrated, might be sent to guard the building from 
destruction, and to watch over those whose lot it might be 
to dwell therein ; the men, with bent knees and uncovered 
heads, listened reverently to the prayer, and joined heartily 
in the ‘‘ Our Father,” which concluded it. Then they all 
took leave of Jordan. 


The First Watc/ier. 


123 


‘‘God bless and protect you, Jordan,” said Arthur, as 
he warmly grasped the ^ sailor’s rough hand. “ You may 
do a great service to your fellows by remaining here. Some 
calm day ere long we’ll come out again, and see how you’re 
getting on. Meanwhile, keep up your spirits, and remember 
that you are not really alone, for God is always with you.” 

“All right, sir; I’m not a bit afraid,” said Jordan. 
“I’ve passed through greater dangers in my life than I’m 
ever likely to meet with in this here lighthouse, which seems 
to me to be built strong enough to stand the fiercest storms 
that ever blew. You need not give yourself any trouble 
about me, sir. I never knew what fear was, and this isn’t 
the place where I’m likely to make its acquaintance.” 

Jordan, though a good, honest fellow, was by no means 
a religious man, and though he couldn’t help admiring and 
respecting the energetic young parson who seemed as if 
nothing could daunt him, yet rather despised him for being 
what was called a Methodist. 

The men gave a hearty cheer as they sailed away from 
the rock, to which the lighthouse-keeper, as he stood at the 
door of his new abode, responded, waving his sou’-wester. 

That night, for the first time, on the Feast of St. Michael 
and All Angels, the friendly warning light shone forth 
clear and distinct from the Longships Rock. 

Arthur beheld it with feelings of joy and gratitude. The 
Sennen men, who felt that they were utterly baffled and 
defeated, could only shake their fists with rage, and utter 
the old string of senseless curses. 

Those were the early days of lighthouses. Experience 
had hardly yet proved the risk and danger of leaving one 
man alone on a solitary rock to attend to the lights ; often 
cut off for days, or even weeks, from communication with 
the shore. Men, too, were very scarce at that period, as 
all the able-bodied were seized for sailors and soldiers* 


124 tellers on the Longs hips. 

Very great, indeed, had been the difficulty to secure the 
services of one man, and long, indeed, would it probably 
have been before a second was forthcoming. In these 
days it is very different. Three men, and sometimes four, 
are appointed to take charge of lighthouses, such as the 
Longships, the Eddystone, and others. Tales terrible, but 
true, of suicide and murder have long ago proved the in- 
expediency and danger of smaller numbers. 

The fine weather lasted till the next evening, when a 
stormy sunset was succeeded by a dark and cloudy night, 
through which the lanterns on the Longships shone out 
brighter and more cheerily than ever. During the whole 
of the following day the wind rose and freshened, till 
towards evening it amounted to a gale. As Arthur and 
Owen stood at the Land's End watching the lighthouse, 
they beheld the fierce billows raging round the rock, the 
waves leaping upon the tall column, and at times dashing 
over it with such fury as completely to hide it from their 
view, yet still permitting occasional glimpses of the bea- 
con light. 

“Thank God, Jordan is all right," said Arthur; “but 
what a gale he's caught in ! It's long since we've had one 
as violent." 

“Yes, sir," replied Owen gloomily; “but we have not 
seen the worst of it yet ; we shall have a very dirty night : 
and, in spite of the lighthouse, there's many men down at 
the Cove who are hoping for a ‘good wreck,' as they call 
it." 

“ I hope they may be disappointed," said Arthur ; “ why 
cannot these men lead honest lives ? If they were sober 
and industrious they could gain their living by fishing 
alone ; but they seem to me to do nothing except look out 
for chances of wrecking and smuggling." 

“ And when they make any money by those means," 


The First Watcher. 


125 


replied Owen, ‘‘ they spend it very quickly in drink, I can 
assure you, sir.” 

‘‘ Yes ; it is the gold of the wreck which pays for the 
accursed abomination of drink, as I have heard it said,” 
remarked Arthur.” 

“ I almost wish, sir,” said Owen, after a pause, that I 
had stayed out in that lighthouse with Jordan. IVe 
blamed myself ever since for not doing so.” 

“ Why, Owen ” asked Arthur, surprised ; “ you long 
ago refused to be lighthouse-keeper. Have you changed 
your mind now ? ” 

‘‘No, not exactly, sir; you know I never wished to be 
lighthouse-keeeper for many reasons. I felt I could never 
stay there alone, and since I lost my poor Philip I haven’t 
heart for anything, and can’t stand what I could before. 
Then I wouldn’t on any account be separated from my 
little Mary, that would break my heart and hers, too. But 
it’s not about myself I’ve been thinking, it’s because of 
Jordan ; he is a stranger to these parts, and no one who 
hasn’t been there before can have any idea of what an 
awful noise there is on the Longships Rock when a gale 
is blowing.” 

“I have no doubt it is very bad,” said Arthur; “but 
Jordan, who has passed all his life at sea, must be well 
inured to such sounds, Owen.” 

“ Ah ! but this is quite a different kind of noise, sir, to 
what one ever hears at sea ; it is the roaring and raging of 
the weaves in a cavern underneath the rock. There is 
nothing you ever heard at all like it, sir ; I can assure you, 
it’s enough to frighten the bravest man, and, if Jordan has 
not been warned about it, it will give him a fright.” 

“You should have mentioned this before, Owen, and 
prepared him for it.” 

“ T wish I had, sir, but the day we took hint out was so 


126 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

calm that it never occurred to me ; I wish now I had kept 
him company, at all events for the first few nights/’ 

“ Well, I wish you had, Owen, for many reasons ; but, at 
the same time, I don’t think Jordan’s one to be easily 
frightened,” replied Arthur. 

That night a furious gale from the southwest raged 
along the coast : many were the watchers at Sennen, and at 
other villages along the shore, keeping a sharp lookout 
for wrecks ; but whether, owing to the lighthouse or to the 
fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil 
hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortune 
of others were frustrated. There were watchers of another 
kind, too, that night. Owen Tresilian never closed his eyes ; 
he was uneasy and restless, he could not help thinking of 
the lonely lighthouse-keeper trimming' his lamps on the 
solitary rock, with the roar of the ocean around and below 
him. Arthur, too, though at first he had given little heed 
to Owen’s words about Jordan, felt anxious, when he came 
to reflect more seriously on the subject ; he perceived what 
a mistake it might prove leaving one man by himself in 
such an isolated spot, surrounded by so many elements of 
terror and danger. 

He passed a sleepless night, and early next morning 
rode to the Land’s End again, eagerly gazing over the 
seething waters, till, through the mist and surf, he discovered 
the lighthouse safe on its rock. Fervently did he implore 
his Father in Heaven to protect its brave keeper. All that 
day did the tempest rage. At nightfall Owen and Arthur 
again repaired to the shore, anxiously watching for the 
lamps to be lighted. Long ere this had they shone forth 
yesterday7T)ut as yet not a ray of light proceeded from the 
buffeted and storm-stricken column. What could be the 
reason, what had happened to the keeper ? The clergyman 
was full of alarm, and Owen more than ever rebuked himself 


The First Watcher. 


127 


for not having proposed to keep Jordan company in his 
lonely watch. This new anxiety seemed to have roused 
him from that melancholy lethargy into which he had sunk 
ever since he had lost his son. The surf was flying around 
the two men, the drifting rain and spray soaked them to 
the skin ; they could scarcely stand against the violence of 
the wind, but still they lingered on, hoping against hope 
that each moment the lamp might flash out its friendly rays 
over the dark abyss, and prove to them that the lonely 
guardian of the lighthouse was alive and at his post. But 
all in vain. Night threw her gloomy pall over the vast 
Atlantic ; there was neither star in the sky nor light from 
the sea to cheer them, and they were as helpless to give aid 
as to discover the cause of this misfortune. ^ Silently at last, 
and with heavy hearts, they turned towards their homes. 

Aha ! parson, what’s become of your light now .? ’’ cried 
a jeering voice out of the darkness. It was that of Nichols ; 
he had also been on the lookout not far from them on the 
clifl, and with equal surprise and pleasure had perceived 
that no lamp was burning on the Longships Rock. 

There could be no reply to those insolent words. Arthur 
and Owen hastened back to the village. 

There was revelry that night at the public-house ; wild 
shouts of laughter, mingled with cries of exultation, might 
be heard, too, from groups of men who stood on the shore, 
or round the cliffs. The lighthouse which was to do them 
so much mischief had very soon proved a failure ; the second 
stormy night had sufficed — though none knew how — to 
extinguish , the lanterns. The parson was baffled now, 
thoroughly defeated in his scheme to take the bread out of 
their mouths. 

At dead of night, too, the evil men of Sennen had an- 
other cause of rejoicing ; a small vessel, driven by the fury 
of the gale, ran upon the rocks at some little distance to the 


128 The Watchers on the Longships. 

north of the Cove, and, as no helping hand was stretched out 
to rescue the poor mariners, they all found a watery grave 
within sight of their native land ; while the ship's cargo, 
which happened to be a valuable one, fell to the share of 
the heartless and rapacious wreckers. 

But why had not the lamp been kindled on the Longships 
lighthouse.^ Let us now turn thither to discover the cause. 

As soon as the clergyman, Owen, and the other men had 
sailed away from the lighthouse, Jordan had set to work 
to arrange his furniture and make himself as comfortable 
in his new abode as circumstances permitted. He then 
went up into the cupola of the tower, and, as it was getting 
dusk, proceeded to light the lamps. On descending to 
his living room below he heard pecutiar rumbling noises 
underneath the lighthouse, such as he had never experienced 
before, but he did not take any particular heed of them, 
and, as he was tired with his long hard day's work, he soon 
fell into a sound sleep. 

Day was dawning when he awoke. His first care was 
to go and extinguish the lamps ; this done, he lighted his 
fire and got his breakfast ready. He had seen, on looking 
out from the tower, that the weather was going to change, 
but he was quite prepared for that, since storms and 
squalls were likely to prevail at that season, and the equi- 
noctial gales couldn't be far off. While Jordan was hard 
at work trimming the lamps and polishing the reflectors, 
the wind was rising; already did the waves beat with 
violence against the strong masonry of the lighthouse, and 
shake it to its very foundation, and the mysterious sound 
below became louder and louder. He w^ent up aloft once 
more, ga^d out first to the west, \vhere the Atlantic loomed 
before him a wdld mass of angry billows, then to the east, 
where the dark jagged coast line was fringed with a broad 
belt of foaming surge, ab:)\e was a leaden sky; there was 


The First Watcher. 


129 


nothing to relieve the monotony of the stormy prospect 
but here -and there the white speck of the sail of some 
vessel which was battling with the elements and striving to 
double the Land’s End. 

The lonely man now went back to his quarters below, 
and looked over his stores. This was soon done. He 
could neither read nor write ; so, with nothing whatever to 
do, shut up in that isolated tower, it was natural enough 
that time should begin to hang heavily on his hands. He 
sat down in his gloomy chamber, his head drooping on his 
breast, brooding over his fate, and already repenting that 
he had been tempted by a high salary to undertake the 
office. He had done so without much consideration, he 
had never reflected on nor tried to realize the horrors of 
complete solitude. Here he was imprisoned in the midst 
of the sea, more than a mile from land, with no chance of 
seeing a human face or hearing a human voice for days, or, 
it might be, weeks. Perhaps he would get accustomed to 
it, he thought, to cheer himself; at any rate, the evil must 
now be endured, and he had better make the best of the lot 
which he had himself chosen. He had made his bed, and 
he must lie upon it ; happily he bethought himself of some 
twine, and a netting needle he had brought with him ; he 
would begin a net and sell it to the Sennen fishermen, or 
use it himself if he got the chance to fish in calm weather ; 
this seemed a bright idea. He worked diligently for an 
hour or so, and then it was time to cook his dinner, which 
gave him some occupation. Meanwhile, the wind was 
still rising, from all appearance there would be a heavy 
gale at night. 

After dinner Jordan continued his netting, though every 
now and then the building shook and quivered as a giant 
wave dashed against it, leaping up its sides and enveloping 
cupola and all in its rough embrace. 


130 The Watchers on the Longships, 

As soon as it grew dusk, even before sunset, he went up 
to l^ht the lamps, the thick glass all round was dimmed 
by the spray, and when a wave rolled over the top he was 
left for a moment in almost complete darkness ; tightly as 
the glass was fixed, and substantially as the whole frame- 
work of the cupola was constructed, the fierce wind seemed 
to penetrate into the interior, and made the lamps flicker 
considerably. 

Nevertheless they burned brightly, so that Jordan felt 
sure that the tempest-tossed mariner would that night be 
warned of the proximity of the destructive rocks which 
lined that dangerous seaboard. 

On such a night as was coming on Jordan felt that sleep 
would be impossible. Moreover, he was a man animated 
by a stern sense of duty, brought up in that strict school 
of discipline and integrity, the British navy. He had un- 
dertaken to keep the lamps constantly burning bright and 
clear from sunset to sunrise, and should the fury of the 
tempest break the glass and extinguish the lights he must 
be on the watch to avert what evil he could, so he de- 
scended to his chamber, lighted his own little dim lamp, 
and paced up and down the room smoking his pipe, start- 
ing occasionally ks some fiercer wave shook the structure 
to its very foundation. 

As the gale increased in violence the weird sound below 
the lighthouse grew louder and louder. Had Jordan had 
a companion with him they would scarcely have been able 
to hear each other’s voices, so deafening was the sound, 
added as it was to the perpetual roar of the sea and the 
noise of the winds. It was the mystery about them which 
shook 4 he man’s usual courage more than any other of the 
horrors by which he was surrounded. Sailors are gene- 
rally more or less superstitious, and though Jordan was not 
naturally so, yet how all sorts of ghastly stories that he 


The Fh^st Watcher. 


131 

had heard years ago, told by his mates in the forecastle, 
about the ghosts of the dead holding revels during storms 
in caverns beneath the ocean’s' depths, came back into his 
mind. What could this strange noise be ? — now it sounded 
like the angry roar of hundreds of imprisoned wild beasts, 
now like the shrieks of myriads of souls in torment. He 
grew every minute more restless and excited. At first he 
was ashamed of himself for feeling afraid ; had he not 
boasted to the parson that he did not know what fear was, 
and now, before three days had elapsed,* he had already 
experienced it. Oh ! that he had never been tempted to 
come to this accursed haunted rock — for haunted he felt 
certain it was. He thought of his past life, of the happy 
home he had once had with his wife and daughter. He 
wondered if he should ever see his daughter again, and 
recollected how opposed she had been to his applying for 
this post. 

Thus the hours passed away till midnight, the gale still 
increasing in fury ; several times did Jordan go up to the 
lantern to trim the flickering lamps and polish the 
reflectors, dimmed by the particles of spray which even 
penetrated into the cupola. The waves now leaped up 
far above the lighthouse, sometimes completely covering 
it. Intense was the darkness out at sea, not the faintest 
glimmer to be seen except the reflection on the water of 
the lamps from the lighthouse, which displayed the violence 
of the storm and the immense size of the foaming billows 
which seethed and boiled around. ^ 

As Jordan descended the spiral staircase into his cheerless 
chamber the strong man fairly gave way to the mysterious 
terrors which assailed him. He fancied that demons were 
holding their fierce revels below, that every moment they 
might appear and drag him down to their awful abode ; or 
that they were working to undermine the founc|ation of 


132 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

the lighthouse, which, with its solitary watcher, would 
fall an easy prey to the fury of the winds and waves, and 
at last be swallowed up in the wild abyss of waters. 

Again he went aloft, the building rocked and reeled 
beneath him, several panes in the lantern were already 
cracked and the water was pouring in. He went down 
once more, fierce yells and shrieks from below fell upon 
his ear, his brain became confused ; now he paced hurriedly 
and feverishly up and down his narrow chamber, now in 
despair he flung himself on the bed ; when the noises had 
grown more deafening, more appalling than ever, he was 
left in utter darkness ; he had forgotten to trim his own 
lamp, it had for some time been flickering in the socket, 
and now had suddenly gone out. He groped about for 
his tinder-box, but could not remember where he had 
put it, so taking up his lamp, he felt his way to the 
staircase, and reached the cupola, where the lights were 
all burning, though they flared and flickered in the wind 
which, through the broken glass, forced its way to the 
lantern. He rekindled his lamp, but it was with a 
trembling hand* he had just turned to descend the stairs 
to the room below when suddenly there came such a 
shock that it seemed as if the strong tower must yield to 
its force, a louder roar than ever from below seemed to 
respond to it, followed by a fearful crash, a rattle of broken 
glass and lead, and Jordan felt himself drenched to the 
skin and plunged into total darkness. A huger, stronger 
wave than any which the angry Atlantic had yet rolled in 
towards the shore had shattered the cupola, carried away 
the cap of the lantern, smashed the glass, and extinguished 
the lamp, as well as the light Jordan carried in his hand. 
Utterly overcome with terror, the poor fellow groped his 
way to his room, where in an agony he threw himself 
on his bed and sank into a state of unconsciousness, 


TJic First ' Watc/icr. 


133 


When daylight dawned it found him in the same con- 
dition, while the still raging hurricane drove billow after 
billow against the lighthouse ; the water through the 
broken lantern now penetrated the interior, and in 
drenching showers pourec^ down into the chamber where 
the unfortunate man was lying. 


134 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A HAZARDOUS VOYAGE AND A BOLD LEAP. 

Guide our barque among the waves, 

Through the rock§ our passage smooth, 

Where the whirlpool frets and raves. 

Let Thy love its anger soothe ; 

All our hope is placed in thee. ” — Miserere Domine, 

A. A. Procter. 

During that terrible night the hurricane had reached its 
height, and with the next day it gradually abated. Arthur 
and Owen again stood on the extreme point of the Land’s 
End eagerly gazing at the lighthouse. Wreathed as it was 
by the snowy surf, and ever and anon hidden from view by 
some gigantic wave, yet there it stood, unharmed, firm, and 
immovable, amid the mighty billows. But what had hap- 
pened * to its brave guardian ? Why had no light shone 
from it yesternight ? These were the questions which 
pressed anxiously on their minds. 

“ The wind has fallen very much, Owen,” said Arthur ; 
the storm has evidently spent its fury. When do you 
think we shall be able to get out to the Longships and 
see what has happened to Jordan ? ” 

“ Certainly not to-day nor to-morrow either, I fear, sir. 
After ^ch a gale as has been blowing for the last forty- 
eight hours it will be very long before the swell goes down 
enough to allow a boat to approach the Longships without 
danger of being dashed in pieces.” 

Danger or no danger, we must risk it at the very 


A Hazardous Voyage. 


135 


earliest opportunity/^ said Arthur, decidedly ; “ I shall not 
have a moment's rest till I know why the lamp was not 
lighted last night. I bitterly blame myself for allowing 
Jordan to be there alone. I wish heartily I had remained 
with him the first night or two." 

“ It was my place to do that, sir, not yours," said Owen. 
“ I begin to see now that it is my duty to take the part of 
lighthouse*keeper ; I was wrong to refuse it, but since I 
lost my poor boy, sir, I don't know what’s come over me, I 
don’t seem as if I had heart to do anything." 

“ Don’t talk of Philip as lost, Owen," said Arthur, in a 
more cheerful tone ; “ I expect he is somewhere fighting 
bravely the battles of his country, and the day will cer- 
tainly come when we shall see him back at Sennen. I am 
glad you have changed your mind about the lighthouse ; a 
man who lives there is doing a grand and noble work, 
helping to save the lives of many fellow-creatures. But I 
shall never consent to your being there alone, Owen. I 
have learned a lesson to-day in that respect." 

“ I should not be afraid, sir, it’s only I shouldn’t know 
what to do about my Mary ; but after all there mayn’t be 
much amiss with Jordan ; perhaps the sea got into the 
lantern and put out the light, we can’t tell till this even- 
ing," 

“ I wish it were only that. I’m sure, Owen," said Arthur ; 
if we don’t see the light to-night, to-morrow we fmist get 
to the Longships ; I cannot stand the suspense ; I shudder 
when I think of that poor fellow alone on that solitary 
rock, with the waves roaring round him." 

“ So do I, sir, and with God’s help I trust we’ll get 
there to-morrow, but it’ll be a hard job, however much the 
wind goes down meanwhile." 

It seemed as if a calm were about to follow the storm ; 
the wind fell till there was scarcely a breath to move the 


136 The Watchers on the Longships. 

leaves or stir the air ; the sky maintained its dull, leaden 
hue ; the sea, a turbid mass of tossing, tumbling waves, 
kept up its incessant and almost deafening roar, still 
dashing up with violence upon the coast, which it lined 
with a broad fringe of creamy surge, and raging with 
impotent fury against the Longships Rock. 

As soon as it was dark many eyes were strained in the 
direction of the lighthouse, but with very different hopes 
and wishes. The party who, for their own wicked and 
selfish reasons, had always been opposed to the erection 
of the friendly beacon, had been triumphant all day, but 
they looked forward with some anxiety to the evening, 
feeling a little doubtful whether their victory would be 
maintained, some thinking that the lamp had only been put 
out by a wave breaking the lantern, and that it would prob- 
ably burn again that evening. Others, however, boldly 
asserted that the whole affair was a failure. Anxiety for 
the safety of poor Jordan, which could only be proved by 
his showing a light, was the absorbing feeling in the minds 
of the clergyman, of Owen, and a very few others. At dusk 
some twenty or thirty of the Sennen men and lads had 
assembled on the Land’s End to watch the lighthouse. 
Dense clouds covered the sky, not a star was to be seen. 
It was quite time now for the lamp to be lighted, but in 
the direction of the Longships not a ray was to be seen, 
no friendly beacon glistened over the gloomy waters. 

“ It’s all right,” said Nichols, “ if he’d been going to 
light up at all he’d have done it before this.” 

“Don’t make too sure. Bill,” said Ben, “it’s early yet, 
though it’s a very dark afternoon.” 

“Well^we’ll give him another half hour, and if he 
doesn’t show himself alive by that time, I shall feel certain 
that the parson’s lighthouse-keeper has regularly come to 
grief.” 


A Hazardous Voyage. 137 

“ And a good thing for us poor folk if he has,” said 
another. 

‘‘ Yonder’s the parson with that set-up fool Tresilian,” 
said Ben, ‘‘ and very long faces they’ve both of them put 
on.” 

“The longer their faces the better chance for us,” said 
Nichols. 

As time wore away, the sea became shrouded in dark- 
ness, and still no light beamed from the lighthouse. 
Arthur and Owen were confirmed in their fears that some- 
thing must be wrong. Both were determined that at all 
risks the lighthouse must be reached on the morrow. 

Shouts of triumph and roars of mocking laughter from 
the men who had been as eagerly watching the lighthouse, 
but with such different hopes, now rent the air. They cut 
Arthur to the heart. Seldom had he felt so thoroughly 
despondent and downcast — slowly he returned home. 
The Sennen men betook themselves to the public-house, 
where they celebrated their triumph by drinking harder 
than usual, so' that not one of them left the place that 
night sober. 

The weather still continued calm, but next morning 
there was the same dull leaden sky, not a ray of sunlight 
over the waters. Both Arthur and Owen were astir early, 
eager to see whether it was possible for them to reach the 
Longships in a boat. There was still quite enough surf 
and swell to make the undertaking a very dangerous one, 
however much care and caution they might employ. Both, 
however, were bent on making the attempt. The great 
difficulty was to obtain two other men to join them, for 
four was the smallest number with which they dared ven- 
ture to put to sea when their object was to effect a landing 
on the Longships Rock. 

One of the preventive men, a daring fellow from the 


138 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

nearest station on the coast, was at last prevailed on to 
join them, and another volunteer was found in David Ab- 
bott, already alluded to in these pages, over whom Arthur 
exercised great and beneficial influence. They at once 
began to get Tresilian’s boat ready to sail, while the Cove 
men, hardly recovered from their drunken bout of the 
previous evening, came one by one lazily out of their cot- 
tages to sneer at what they called this mad game ; not one 
of them could ever get back again alive, they said, since 
the boat would certainly be dashed to pieces against the 
rocks. They tried hard to frighten the two men whom 
Arthur had persuaded to join them, hoping they would go 
back, and that thus the expedition might come to naught, 
but they were both too brave to change their minds, after 
having given their word to the parson. Arthur’s example, 
his courage in going himself to the rock, his contempt for 
danger when the life of a brother-man was at stake, filled 
them with admiration ; none except the most degraded char- 
acters could fail to respect such heroism, and at the last 
moment, when the boat was on the point of being launched, 
two other men offered their services, which, of course, 
were only too gladly accepted. 

At first all went smoothly enough. There was scarcely 
a breath of wind, and though the swell was heavy, it only 
somewhat impeded their progress. The men pulled heartily, 
and rounded with no little difficulty the last point, which 
brought them to the maze of rocks which surrounds the 
Longships. H^re the sea swirled and boiled round the 
granite islands, driven hither and thither by fierce contend- 
ing currents, and still violently agitated by the effects of 
the recent gale. Strength, skill and coolness were now 
requisite, and Arthur was very thankful for the aid of the 
two men who had been the last to volunteer. 

The boat was tossed and swirled in every direction. To 


A Hazardous Voyage. 


139 


steer her so as to meet the waves and to avoid the rocks 
was no easy task ; this was Owen’s work, while Arthur took 
his turn at the oars, like the other men. All were soon 
drenched to the skin, and it was more than one man could 
do to bale out the water which constantly filled and 
threatened to swamp the boat. The nearer they approached 
the rock the greater was the danger, the rougher and 
more agitated the sea. The waves still leaped up upon 
the lighthouse, burying it in clouds of surf. The enterprise 
seemed more and more hopeless, and all except Arthur felt 
inclined to abandon it in despair. But he cheered on the 
men, telling them it would never do for them to show their 
faces at Sennen Cove returning crestfallen from a fruitless 
expedition. Somehow or other a landing must be effected 
on the rock. And then he lifted up his heart to Him who 
holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand, and who 
alone can assuage the fury of the waves, imploring Him to 
grant success to their endeavors. 

The tide favored them, as it was nearly high water, 
when it was always easier to effect a landing on the rock. 
Weary and exhausted, buffeted by the waves, cold and wet, 
beaten back at every effort, they still persevered with dogged 
energy, but seemed no nearer achieving their purpose, If 
they came too close to the rock, they exposed themselves 
to the risk of having the boat dashed to atoms against it 
by the next breaker. Their hope was that, by dodging 
the waves, they might land a couple of men between the 
intervals. But the waves were so irregular there was no 
calculating on them ; it was not a heavy sea rolling in 
regularly, but a boiling, foaming • mass of tumbling 
water. 

Arthur proposed that two men should be ready to spring 
on the rock if the boat could be brought sufficiently near, 
and that ropes should be tied round their waists, so that, in 


140 The Watchers ou the Longs hips. 

case they missed the land, they might be dragged back 
again into the boat. None of the men, ho\vev(?r, seemed 
willing to incur this risk with the exception of Owen, who 
could not be spared, as he was indispensable as coxswain. 
Arthur, therefore, insisted on making the attempt him- 
self. All tried to disuade him from it, but he was 
resolute. He was, he said, the youngest man there ; he 
had no wife nor family to lament his loss if he perished. 
His example so wrought upon another man, Harry Ellis, 
one of the last volunteers, that he offered to make the 
attempt with him. All was made ready, and they again 
approached the rock, but just as they seemed near enough, 
and Arthur was about to spring on shore, a huge wave 
threw them back a greater distance than ever from the 
lighthouse. Still they persevered ; over and over again 
did the same thing happen, till at last, when even Arthur 
was beginning to despair, there seemed to be a sudden 
lull, the men pulled hard, the boat approached nearer to 
the rock than it had ever done before. This time Arthur 
was determined to make the attempt; if he failed, he 
knew that with the rope round his waist his mates would 
be able to drag him back; he was a first-rate swimmer, 
too, and even in, a heavy sea could keep himself up for a 
long time, so without a moment’s hesitation he took a bold 
leap, springing safely upon a projecting ledge of the 
Longships ; Ellis, eager to follow, was almost immediately 
behind him, but he was less successful ; at that moment a 
huge wave driving the boat far away from the rock, he fell 
into the raging surf, and his companions with no little 
dhficulty dragged him back into the boat, exhausted and 
almost senseless. 

Arthur stood upon the rock alone. He had loosened 
the rope from his waist, and now held it with both hands 
round a ledge of rock, hoping by this means to keep the 


A Hazardous Voyage. ' 14 1 

boat near enough to enable Ellis or one of the rest to make 
another attempt to leap on the rock beside him. 

But this was found to be impossible. With the turn of 
the tide the swell seemed to have increased, and though 
repeated efforts were made to approach the Longships by 
the brave men in the boat they were every time driven 
back further from their object. Owen would not hear of 
Arthur being left alone on the rock ; he urged the men on 
with far more energy and vigor than he had done when the 
parson was in the boat, but he soon became convinced, as 
all the others had been long before, that there was not the 
slightest chance of success, and that the clergyman must 
be left on the Longships with Jordan — whether dead or 
alive they knew not — till the next day, when the attempt 
must at all hazards be renewed. 

Arthur himself, who had watched their heroic efforts to 
reach him, made signs to them now to abandon him and 
return to Sennen, for he clearly perceived that they were 
only vainly wasting their strength and their time. 

Sadly and reluctantly Owen had to yield. With a heavy 
heart he steered his boat away from the lighthouse in the 
direction of the Cove. Borne on by the tide and surf, she 
bounded rapidly over the waters, leaving behind her 
another watcher on the Longships, one who could ill be 
spared from other and higher duties, to occupy such a post, 
but who had a heart bold and brave enough to feel no fear 
at remaining there, or having to occupy the singular posi- 
tion to which the force of circumstances, or rather the 
Providence of God, had so unexpectedly called him. 

The sensation caused on shore by the strange tidings 
which the boatmen brought back can well be imagined. 
The partial failure of their enterprise, and the forced 
imprisonment of the parson in the lighthouse for a period, 
the length of which must entirely depend upon the pleasure 


142 Thd Watchers on the Longs hips. 

of the winds and waves, caused no little joy to Nichols, 
Pollard, and the more badly disposed of the Sennen folk. 
Fortune seemed now decidedly to favor them, and to have 
set thoroughly against the parson and his lighthouse 
scheme. Still there were very few who could withhold 
their admiration of Arthur’s heroic conduct. There was 
no doubt that on the morrow many would volunteer to aid 
in setting the parson at liberty, if the weather permitted 
the attempt, and that Tresilian’s boat would not be the only 
one launched from Sennen beach to sail to his rescue. It 
is very seldom that true courage does not gain adherents 
to the cause it represents ; only the most degraded can fail 
to be inspired with admiration and regard for the bold, 
self-sacrificing deeds of a really brave man. 

But we must return to the lighthouse, where we left 
Arthur standing alone upon the rock. He watched the 
boat as it was driven along by the waves, now and then 
almost completely hidden by the surf. It seemed to be 
the last link which bound him to the shore, to his home, to 
the flock he had learned to love so well. How long would 
he have to stay here ? what would be his fate ? and what 
had been the fate of the luckless man who had been left 
in this awful solitude alone ? Whatever it was (and he 
would soon know), he knew that he ought to share it, for 
it was his want 6 i thought that had occasioned it. But he 
felt no fear. God, his Father, was with him in that lonely 
rock, quite as near as He was in his home on shore ; no 
harm could happen to him unless He willed it. 

So he turned towards the lighthouse, and, finding the 
door was closed, but not locked, he opened it and entered. 
He stopi^^l at the threshold to listen, but not a sound 
could he hear except the beating of the surf against the 
granite rock, and the singular rumbling and roaring of the 
weaves beneath, He lost no time in ascending the spiral 


A Hazardous Voyage. 


143 


staircase which led into the living-room of the^ lighthouse- 
keeper. The apartment was in great confusion, the floor 
covered with pools of water, broken glass, and pieces of 
lead ; here lay a lamp out of which all the oil had poured, 
there an overturned saucepan, no fire was burning in the 
grate, but some coals were strewn about the room ; while 
partly on the bed, partly resting on the floor, Arthur per- 
ceived the motionless body of Jordan, his face hidden in 
the clothes. 

Was he alive or dead ? For a moment the young clergy- 
man stood horror-struck, then recovering himself, ‘‘Jordan,’’ 
he asked, in a low voice, “what is the matter? Are 
you ill?” 

Not a word came in reply, there was not the slightest 
movement in the recumbent form before him. He now 
approached nearer and bent over the apparently lifeless 
body, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Jordan,” 
he said, “it is I, Arthur Pendrean, come to see you, don’t 
you know me?” A shudder passed through the man’s 
whole frame, and Arthur, to his inexpressible relief, felt 
now that he was alive. But Jordan did not move nor look 
up, he only heaved a deep sigh. 

“Jordan, my good fellow, what is the matter? ” continued 
the clergyman. “ Are you ill ? I am come here to keep 
you company ; don’t be afraid.” 

Slowly now, and very cautiously, did the poor man turn 
round to see who was addressing him in such kindly tones. 
Arthur, when he saw his faqe could not help involuntarily 
starting back with horror, the features were so altered that 
he could scarcely recognize them— abject terror was depicted 
on his countenance, while the vacant stare and rolling eyes 
betokened idiocy or madness. A still more striking change 
in his appearance had taken place since Arthur had left 
him on the rock three days- ago. Jordan’s hair, which had 


144 Watchers o)i the Loiigships. ^ 

been jet black then, had now turned snowy white, like 
that of an old man, — the effect of extreme terror. 

So horror-stricken was Arthur that he could not recover 
himself for several minutes nor utter a word. Meanwhile 
Jordilp kept his eyes fixed upon him. 

‘‘ Jordan, my poor fellow,” he said at last, taking his hand 
and staing^down beside him, ‘‘you have suffered terribly 
from your lonely watch, I know, but I have come to take 
you away, and to-morrow you shall leave the lighthouse 
forever.” 

There was not a word in reply, only the same fixed and 
vacant stare. There was no doubt, Arthur felt, that the 
poor man’s mind wa§ affected, he trusted, however, only tem- 
porarily. He seemed to have lost the power of speech, and 
it appeared doubtful, too, whether he understood the kindly 
soothing words addressed to him. But he was perfectly quiet 
and dbcile. He would sigh and groan occasionally, cover 
his face with his hands, or throw himself upon the bed, but 
there was no violence in his madness. He looked so weak 
and exhausted that Arthur felt certain he had not tasted 
any food for a couple of days, and he at once set to work 
to prepare some for him, and lighted a fire, which soon 
made the room look more cheerful. 

Jordan closely watched all his movements. He ate 
eagerly of the food which Arthur offered him, even seem- 
ing to enjoy it, but still he did not utter a word. 

Arthur having done his best to put the room in 
order, and to repair the damage which the storm had made 
there, now went up to the cupola to examine the lanterns. 
Here he at once perceived what destruction the gale had 
wrought,~-ahd noted for future guidance the precautions 
that must be taken to protect the lights against the fury of 
the winds and waves. Every pane of glass was broken, a 
part of the cupola, too, had been injured, the lamps and 


A Hazardous Voyage. 


HS 


reflectors were so drenched with salt water that he doubted 
very much whether he would be able to get any of them to 
burn that night, an object he was most desirous to effect, 
if only to relieve the anxiety of his friends on shore. 

When, after taking these observations, he returned .to ithe 
room below, he found that Jordan had sunk down asleep 
on the bed. He rejoiced at this, for he hoped that rest and 
sleep might have a beneficial* effect upon the poor 
mind. Moreover, as he did not require his attention, it 
gave him more time to clean the lamps and repair, as far 
as possible, the mischief done in the cupola. If the night 
were only calm, and the wind did not rise again, he hoped 
that the lighthouse would once more send out a cheering 
ray, and proclaim to those on shore that one watcher, at all 
events, was there to guard it. But, should a storm arise, 
with the broken glass and cupola, there would be no hope 
of keeping the lamps alight. It was no easy task to clean 
the lamps and reflectors ; he had to seek also for fresh wicks 
and for a new supply of oil. However, when it began to 
grow dusk, Arthur’s arrangements were quite complete, 
and to his great delight, he succeeded in getti^g most of the 
lamps to burn. There was still but little wind, and he 
hoped that, if this calm weather continued, to-morrow, or at 
all events the next day, he would be released from a con- 
finement which he had so little anticipated. 

He remained for some time in the cupola, trimming the 
lamps and gazing over the vast waste of waters which 
stretched around him. How strange was his position ! 
alone — almost worse than alone — shut up in that narrow 
space, with nothing but the sea around him, no means 
of communicating with his friends, the length of his 
captivity entirely dependent on the mercy of the winds 
and waves. 

jSiow, for the first time, he understood how isolated, 


146 The Watchers on the Longships. 

how terribly monotonous is the life of a lighthouse- 
keeper, and how wrong and dangerous it was to leave 
one man alone in such a position. His long-cherished 
scheme, which he thought had been so happily accom- 
plished, was still far from successful. He glanced at the 
broken glass and woodwork, which would take some time to 
repair : it would be no little expense, too, and there would 
be great difficulty in persuading workmen to come out 
at that time of year, not to speak of the difficulty of 
embarking them on the rock in mid-winter. Then, who 
was to take Jordan’s place ? Tresilian undoubtedly was 
willing to do so, but never would Arthur consent to his 
remaining there alone, and he could not think of any one 
who was in the least likely to volunteer to join him. On 
the other hand, Arthur felt the importance of keeping the 
lamps lighted as far as possible during the winter. Now, 
that they had once sent forth their cheering rays, it would 
never do for them to be extinguished, the shipping interest 
would suffer, lives would be sacrificed, and wreckers would 
triumph ; but greater difficulties than those which now faced 
him had been overcome, and, with God’s help, he hoped to 
conquer these, too. 

Finding Jordan still asleep, he put the lamp he carried 
in his hand on the table, and to calm himself took out of 
his pocket the Bible and Prayer Book he always carried 
with him. He read the Psalms, lessons, and daily office, 
and grew gradually composed as he realized the presence 
of Him who alone could still the raging of the storm, 
who Himself had walked calm and unmoved over the 
fierce billows of the Galilean lake. 

After^itting thus for about an hour, he again went up to 
look at the lantern. The wind had slightly risen, and two 
of the lamps had been blown out, these he lighted again 
with difficulty. Clouds were gathering in the west. Was 


A Hazardous Voyage. 


147 


another gale coming on, and was he to be condemned to a 
week’s sojourn in the lighthouse ? 

On returning below, he heard for the first time that 
extraordinary roaring and rumbling of the waters about 
which Owen had told him, and which, from its ren^arkable 
and mysterious sound, had so terrified poor Jordan. It did 
not alarm Arthur, but he could well understand that on an 
ignorant and superstitious mind, in so lonely and isolated a 
spot, its effects might be very appalling. 

Jordan was now becoming restless. Arthur, who had 
kept the fire alight, had food ready for him. The poor 
fellow now awoke with a start, resting on his elbow, he 
gazed at Arthur wildly, as if he had never seen him before. 

“ Where am I ? ” he exclaimed, springing out of bed. 
“ Who are you ? ” 

I am the parson of Sennen, Mr. Pendrean,” said Arthur, 
quietly. ‘‘ I have come out to keep you company in the 
lighthouse till we can both go back to shore together.” 

In the lighthouse ! ” he exclaimed, as he sprang up in 
terror. “ Am I still in that accursed place, with all those 
demons yelling around me, and the sea threatening every 
moment to swallow me up ? Good God ! I thought I was 
out of it. Ha ! ha ! it was only a dream, then, and I 
have been asleep, and am still in this awful prison. 
Ah ! I hear them again — there is that horrid sound, that 
hissing and roaring as of imprisoned devils, and they 
may break loose at any moment, and come and drag me down 
to their den below,” and he threw himself down upon the 
bed again in an agony of terror. 

Arthur was shocked when he saw the state of abject 
fear into which the poor fellow was plunged, though thank- 
ful he had recovered the use of his speech. He went up 
to him as he lay, taking his hand and doing his best to 
soothe and comfort him. It was long before he could 


148 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

make him realize that he was no longer alone, but when at 
last he was convinced that he had now a companion in his 
solitude, who would never leave him, he became quieter 
and more reasonable. 

Still, when the rumbling sound in the cavern below 
increased, as it did with the rising of the wind, the strong 
frame of the poor sailor trembled as a leaf in a breeze, 
making him shudder and cling to Arthur like a child. 
The clergyman soon discovered that argument was of no 
avail, he had to treat the poor fellow as he would a child. 
Jordan eagerly ate the food prepared for him, but he did 
not fall asleep again, as Arthur had hoped. A long and 
weary night was it for the poor young parson, he could 
not leave his charge for a moment, he dared not even go 
up to the cupola, to see if the lamps were still burning. He 
feared the effects of the least interval of solitude on his 
companion’s disordered mind. . That the wind was still 
rising he heard plainly enough, what a prospect was this in 
store for him if another gale were coming on ! For a 
week or more he might be imprisoned on this lonely rock, 
his only associate a man who had been driven to the verge 
of insanity. He had need, indeed, to exercise all his faith 
and trust in the ever-watchful care of Him who never for- 
sakes His children. 


The Second Watcher. 


149 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE SECOND WATCHER ON THE LONGSHIPS. 


“ Yet, were I fain still to remain 
Watch in my tower to keep, 

And tend my light in the stormiest night 
That ever did move the deep. 

“ And if it stood, why then ’twere good. 

Amid their tremulous stirs. 

To count each stroke when the mad waves broke 
For cheers of mariners.*’ 

^ —Jean Ingelow. 

There was no little excitement at Sennen Cove that even- 
ing. That a parson should be shut up in a lighthouse was 
such a strange and unprecedented circumstance that nothing 
else could be talked about, and the news of it spread like 
wildfire all through the neighborhood. 

When the old squire heard the tidings he was seriously 
alarmed, giving orders that no pains nor expense should be 
spared in trying to reach the rock, and in liberating the 
prisoners. 

Towards evening crowds, not only from Sennen, but from 
the other villages and hamlets around, where the parson 
was well known and beloved, gathered on the cliffs eager 
to catch the first glimpse of light from the Longships. 
They had not long to wait. A hearty cheer broke from the 
throng, when, fainter than usual certainly, but still bright 
and clear, the lantern once more sent forth its friendly ray. 
The parson at all events was safe, it was his hand that had 


150 TJic Watchers on the Longships. 

kindled the lamps, and to-morrow, if all were well, the 
mystery would be solved ; they would know what had hap- 
pened to Jordan, and why the lamps had not been lighted 
for two evenings. 

Nichols, who was standing in the centre of a group of 
men like-minded with himself, uttered an oath when he 
saw the beacon, and exclaimed, “ There’s that parson again 
in our way ; when he can’t get any one to do it for him, 
he goes and lights up that cursed lantern himself ; I wish 
he’d only stay there. I’d almost stand the lighthouse if 
we could get rid of him for good.” 

“ It strikes me he’ll be there for a day or two loilger,” 
said Ben. “ I’m very much mistaken if the wind doesn’t 
rise again to-night, and there’ll be no getting at the rock 
to-morrow.” 

“I’d be glad if a gale came on, and blew hard for a 
month,” said Nichols. “ Starve the parson out, I say.” 

“ Hardly likely to last so long as that. Bill, but at this 
time of year one can’t expect calm weather to hold out 
for long.” 

Owen also had been anxiously watching the sky ; he was 
too weatherwise not to perceive signs of rising wind, and 
perhaps of a coming storm. He had so set his mind upon 
rescuing Arthur on the morrow that he could not endure 
the idea of anything thwarting his intentions ; but he knew 
well enough that if the sea were in the least degree 
heavier than it had been to-day all attempts at reaching 
the lighthouse would .be futile. He turned away from 
the cliff with a sad heart, and walked slowly back to 
his cottage, where the bright face of his little daughter 
greeted him as usual with a friendly smile, and with the 
eager question — 

“Did the light burn in the Longships this evening, 
father?” 


The Second Watcher. 


151 


“Yes, Mary, it did, I am thankful to say.” 

“Oh, that is good news! then Mr. Pendrean is quite 
safe, for he must have lighted the lamps, and to-morrow 
you'll go and fetch him home. Won't you, father ? '' 

“Yes, my child, if the weather only allows us.'' 

“ Oh, it certainly will, father ; I hear no wind to-night ; 
it's sure to be fine and smooth to-morrow.'' 

“Not at all so sure, Mary, there's every sign of the wind 
rising. I am very uneasy about it. ’It might happen at 
this time of year that we couldn't get to the rock for a week 
or more, and think of poor Master Arthur being shut up 
in the lighthouse all that time. We don't know what's 
happened to Jordan, he may be dead, or very ill, or gone 
mad, and in any case Mr. Arthur will have a terrible time 
of it. Only to think of a gentleman like him having to 
light the lamps, make a fire, see to the stores, and all 
that kind of thing. I wish I had prevented him landing 
on the rock; for all the mischief that's been done I'm 
more to blame than any one else.” 

“O father! don't say that; and I'm sure, too, you've 
been a great help to Mr. Arthur in many ways. He’s 
always come to you for advice, and you have often taken 
him out in your boat when he wanted to go and see how 
the works were going on.” 

“ Ah, but I mean, Mary, that I ought to have taken the 
post of lighthouse-keeper, as Master Arthur wanted me to 
do. This wouldn't have happened then.” 

“You might have been ill — or whatever has happened 
to Jordan might surely have happened to you, father.” 

“Not likely, my child. I believe that poor fellow has 
been frightened to death by the horrible noise that the sea 
makes under the rock. I forgot to warn him about it, as I 
ought to have done.” 

Owen sat down before the fire, and left his supper, which 


152 The Watchers on the Longships, 

his daughter had ready for him, untasted, burying his head 
in his hands and heaving a long, deep sigh. 

.“Come, father,” said Mary, “don’t take on so. Eat 
your supper and you’ll be better afterwards. Perhaps it 
will be fine after all to-morrow, and then you’ll fetch 
Mr. Arthur back again, and how glad everybody will be to 
see him.” 

It was some time before Mary could induce her father to 
come to the table, and even then he ate his supper gloomily 
and in silence. = When he had finished he again sat brood- 
ing over the fire. 

“ I tell you what it is, Molly,” he said at last, “ I shall 
have to go and be the lighthouse-keeper at last — there’s 
no one else fit to take the post, and I see it’s my duty to 
do it, so we’ll have to be separated, my dear,” he contin- 
ued, in a choking voice, “ and I must find a home for you, 
and some one who’ll look after you while I’m away.” 

“No, father, I shall go with you,” said Mary, firmly. 
“ I’d as soon live in the lighthouse as here ; we can’t have 
any garden, of course ; and we’ll have to give up the fowls 
and the pig, but then you’ll be with me all day ; you won’t 
ever go fishing and stay out all night as you’ve had to do 
sometimes. Why, I daresay, I shall like living in the 
lighthouse very much.” 

“Nonsense, child, I should not think of such a thing; 
I’d never expose you to the dangers of such a place; there 
would be all the risk of getting there ; and then that 
dreadful noise from underneath, you’d never stand it a 
day. Think of the building trembling and quivering with 
every wave — no, no, Mary, that would never do, you must 
find a honie somewhere on shore.” 

“ O father ! let me go with you ; if you’re in danger I’d 
like to share it. I’m sure I shan’t be afraid of the noise, 
besides you’ll always be with me. Of course I shouldn’t 


The Second Watcher. 


IS3 


like to be quite alone there, though I don’t see what there 
is to be frightened at ; think how much pleasanter it will 
be for you if Fm there to get your meals ready and light 
the fire. Fd rather live with you in the lighthouse than in 
the squire’s fine house without you — do let me go, father.” 

“You’re a dear good girl, Mary,” said her father, em- 
bracing her tenderly, “the only comfort I have got in 
this world now, all the more reason i should be careful 
of you, and not think of running such a /risk as allowing 
you to live in a lighthouse. No, no, my child ; it can 
never be.” 

Mary burst into tears. All her father’s efforts to soothe 
her were vain. He wished he had said nothing about the 
lighthouse. He felt how hard separation would be to 
both of them. But the idea of taking such a young child 
to spend months, or perhaps years, on a lonely rock, gazing 
upon nothing but a wild expanse of sea, and hearing no 
sounds but the roaring of the waves and the cries of the 
sea-birds, was so repugnant to him that he could not admit 
it for a moment. He could only quiet her for the time by 
saying that, perhaps, after all he should not have to live at 
the Longships, and that Mr. Arthur might find another and 
more suitable guardian for the lighthouse. 

But poor Mary went to bed sad at heart, and passed as 
restless a night as her father, who was listening to the 
rising wind and to the waves beating against the shore. 
She wouldn’t mind at all going to live at the lighthouse ; but 
that her beloved father should be there quite alone, that 
she should hear nothing of him for weeks or months, was 
an intolerable thought to her. When Mr. Arthur came 
back she made up her mind she would speak to him about 
it, and get him to persuade her father to let her go with 
him to the lighthouse if he, indeed, became the keeper. 
Next morning Nichols’ hopes and Tresilian’s fears were 


154 The Watc/icrs oji the Lo)igships, 

only too fully confirmed. It was blowing hard. It would 
be utterly impossible for any boat to approach the Carn- 
Bras rock. The lighthouse was every now and then com- 
pletely hidden by the waves which dashed over it. The 
old squire was in a great state of excitement. He rode 
down to the Land’s End, and was vexed and irritated 
when he heard that no boats had put out that morning to 
the Longships, but when he saw the state of the sea, even 
he was convinced that all attempts must be utterly fruit- 
less, and turned away homeward anxious and downcast. 

Owen, feeling how powerless he was to afford any aid to 
the imprisoned parson, paced the cliffs agitated and rest- 
less, vainly scanning sea and sky in hopes of observing 
signs of more favorable weather. Nichols and his com- 
panion passed the greater part of the day in the ale-house, 
celebrating the defeat and imprisonment of their enemy 
by a drunken bout. 

In the evening the light was again visible, but it was 
much fainter than it had been yesterday ; several times it 
vanished altogether, but reappeared after a short interval. 
The men on shore understood from this that the lantern 
was damaged, so that the sea at times put out the lamp, 
which was as soon as possible relighted. Next morning 
happily brought a very favorable change in the weather, 
the wind had veered round to the east and fallen alto- 
gether, the sky was bright and clear, and there was little 
doubt that on the morrow a landing could be effected on 
the rock, though not unattended with difficulty and danger. 

In the evening the light burned steadily, though it was 
somewh^faint ; this was a cheering and encouraging sign 
to Arthur’s many friends on shore. Meanwhile calm 
weather continued, and the sea was already smoother. 
Owen was in better spirits than he had been for a long 
time. He made every arrangement for an early start next 


The Second Watcher, 


155 


morning. The four men who had accompanied him before 
were again to form his crew ; to them were added two 
others. A second boat manned by five of the Sennen 
men, who could not help admiring the young parson’s 
bravery and unselfishness, was to put off for the Longships 
at the same time, and to render all assistance in its power. 

We will now return to the lighthouse. Arthur had 
passed an anxious and sleepless night. He could not 
leave Jordan for a minute, the wind continued to rise, 
while the waves dashed more and more violently against 
the building. The weird noises below, too, had greatly 
increased ; he could scarcely feel surprise at their effects 
on his unhappy companion. At early dawn he went up to 
the lantern to find the lamps drenched and put out by the 
sea and spray, which penetrated unhindered through the 
broken glass. It was blowing hard, the sea was rough, 
and there was every indication of squally weather. It was 
Thursday now ; if he did not get released by Saturday 
there would be no one to minister to his flock ort Sunday, 
and the church would have to be shut up. This grieved 
him far more than the prospect of the trials and incon- 
veniences he would personally have to endure, if he 
remained here much longer. Provisions would soon run 
short, and the strain and anxiety in his mind entailed by 
Jordan’s still helpless and agitated condition, and by the 
necessity of performing himself the duties of a lighthouse- 
keeper, was as much as he could bear. Still he would not 
despond, but seek for comfort in his Bible and Prayer- 
book, and then set to work to prepare his sermon for 
Sunday, though he felt there was not much chance of his 
getting ashore to preach it. He selected for his text the 
24th verse of Psalm^cvii. “These men see the works 
of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep,” for he felt 
now that he could speak more than ever from his own 


1 56 The Watchers on the Longships. 

experience of the dangers and terrors of the deep, and 
could also prove how a firm trust and confidence in Him, 
who ruleth the raging of the storm, is able to keep a man 
calm and fearless amid them all, because he knows that a 
Father’s hand is stretched out to guard and protect him. 

He was thus occupied when Jordan awoke with a start 
from the heavy stupor in which he usually lay. At first, 
when his ears were greeted by the same howling of the 
wind and the rumbling of the sea beneath, he looked ter- 
ror-stricken and began to tremble violently, but when he 
saw Arthur standing at his side and looking kindly down 
upon him, he was reassured. ‘‘Ah, you are still here, sir,’^ 
he said ; “ I was afraid it was all a dream that you had 
come to share my dreadful prison, but I begin to think it’s 
real now.” 

“Yes, quite real, Jordan,” said Arthur, taking his hand; 
“and I hope we shall both get out of our prison before 
many days are over ; but we must make the best of it now, 
and try to keep up each other’s spirits.” 

“ But how did you come here, sir ? and why are you all 
alone with me in this dreary place } ” said Jordan, like one 
awaking from a dream. 

Arthur was delighted to see these signs of returning 
intelligence. He told him of their alarm and anxiety about 
him on shore when no light was seen, of the perilous 
voyage of the Sennen boat, and of the accident which had 
left him as his companion and on the rock. 

“It was very kind of you to come, sir,” said Jordan at 
last ; “ and to give yourself so much trouble about a poor 
fellow like me. There are not many gentlemen who would 
have risk^ their lives as you have done to see what ailed 
a poor lighthouse-keeper.” 

“It was only my duty, Jordan,” said Arthur, “and any 
one with the sense of humanity would have acted in the 


The Second Watcher. 


157 


same way. Besides that, I was partly responsible. I was 
to blame for allowing you to be here all alone. One soli- 
tary man should never be left to guard a lighthouse, as I 
have now learned from experience.’^ 

‘‘You are quite right there, sif,” said Jordan, with a 
shudder. “ I’ve had a terrible time of it. I believe, too, 
sir,” he added after a pause, “that I’ve been quite out of 
my senses with the fright.” 

“ But you’re getting right again now, I hope,” said 
Arthur. 

“ I still feel very queer and weak in the head, sir ; but I 
am not like what I have been, for sometimes I did not 
know whether I was dead or alive, asleep or awake. These 
horrid noises that come up from below, it’s that what’s 
frightened me so, sir ; never in my life have I heard any- 
thing like it. I take it — it’s demons dancing and howling 
in some cavern below. Ah, sir, don’t you hear them now ? 
If you were not here I’d go mad, sir, at once with terror.” 
He spoke excitedly, and began to tremble afresh, till Arthur 
put his hand on his shoulder, saying kindly, — 

“ My good fellow, do put such foolish notions out of your 
head. God does not permit demons to come near us in 
this world. You are as safe from them here as you would 
be on shore. The noise proceeds from natural causes. 
There is a great cavern underneath this rock ; when the sea 
is rough, this strange noise is produced by the air confined 
within it ; to this is added the roar of the ocean and the 
beating of the waves against the rock. You ought to have 
had all this explained to you before you came out here.” 

“ Well, sir, I suppose you’re right ; but it’s hard to be- 
lieve that such a noise as this can be caused by anything 
else than by the power of the evil one. I never could 
spend another night alone here, sir ; it would be the death 
of me I ” 


158 The Watchers on the Longships. 


^‘You never shall, Jordan,’’ said Arthur. ‘‘I remain 
with you here till we are both released, then you go on 
shore never to come back hither. You shall never want 
for anything as long as I live.” 

‘‘Thank you, sir,” said Jordan, with a more cheerful 
expression than he had ever yet assumed. “Ah, how 
glad I shall be to feel myself on shore again ! ” 

In the course of the afternoon Jordan related all he had 
experienced in the lighthouse during the three days he had 
passed in it before Arthur’s arrival. He told him also a 
great deal about his past career. He had seen a great deal 
of wild, rough life beyond the sea, had endured a good 
share of hardships and trials, and he was as superstitious 
as most sailors that have little or no religion. Arthur was 
surprised at his ignorance of sacred subjects. On these he 
spoke to him for a long time, and read to him also from 
the Bible. Jordan was much interested in what he heard; 
his heart was so touched by Arthur’s kindness that it was 
opened to receive God’s truth, and in his present condition 
it made a deep impression on his mind. 

In the evening Arthur went up to light the lamps, Jor- 
dan, who was quite quiet and composed, remaining below. 
With joy did the young clergyman perceive that the wind 
had fallen, and that the sky was evidently brightening. 
One by one the stars came out. To-morrow, perhaps, 
they would be rescued. He went down and told his com- 
panion of the good news. 

Both passed a much quieter night. Jordan slept well, 
and Arthur, wearied out with all the fatigues and exertions 
of his new life, did not awake till daylight. ^When he 
mounted the cupola he found to his joy that the storm had 
abated, and that though swell and surf were still too heavy 
to allow a boat to approach the rock, yet in a day or two 
there would be every hope of deliverance. 


The Second Watcher, 


^59 


On returning below he told Jordan, who was just awak- 
ing, the happy tidings, and a smile of pleasure passed over 
the poor fellow’s face. ^ 

Oh ! what it will be, sir, to feel myself on shore again. 
I shall be thankful, indeed. But never shall I forget the 
terrible time I have passed here.” 

“ I am glad you are a little more cheerful this morning, 
Jordan,” said Arthur; “it does me good, too, to see you 
so. I feel that I have nothing to regret in the accident 
which left me here with you alone. God’s hand was 
in it ! I now know from experience what a lighthouse- 
keeper’s life is, and shall be able better to sympathize with 
whoever is brave enough to take this post after us. I 
fear, however, that I shan’t discover the right man in a 
hurry, and that some time must elapse before the lamps 
are lighted again.” 

“Yes, sir, I am afraid there’ll be trouble to find any one 
to take the post. You say you will have two men now, 
and you are quite right there. Yet you won’t find two in 
this neighborhood, I am sure. 

“ I fear not,” said Arthur ; “ I have one who has volun- 
teered — Owen Tresilian — I only wish he had done so 
before, and came out with you a week ago ; but I have 
made up my mind not to allow him to be here alone, wil- 
ling as he is to come.” 

The day passed away quietly. When in the evening 
Arthur and Jordan went up to light the lamps there was 
scarcely a breath of wind, the air was clear and frosty, and 
the sky bright with countless stars. There was every 
reason to hope that the morrow would bring them release 
from their prison. With lighter hearts than either of 
them had for several nights experienced, Arthur and his 
companion retired to rest. 


i6o 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

DELIVERANCE. 

“ O God ! who wert my childhood’s love, 

My boyhood’s pure delight, 

A presence felt the livelong day, ^ 

A welcome fear at night, — 

Oh, let me speak to Thee, dear God ! 

Of those old mercies past, 

O’er w'hich new mercies day by day 
Such 'lengthening shadows cast.” 

— Faber. 

Morning dawned, still clear and frosty ; scarcely a breath 
of wind ruffled the surface of the bay, and there was no 
doubt that although there would still be surf and swell 
round the Carn-Bras Rock, yet perseverance and caution 
would enable the brave Sennen fishermen to overcome all 
difficulties and effect a landing. Ovven naturally was the 
leader of the party , all who had formerly taken part in 
the enterprise joined him again ; and when the two boats 
put off from the shore a hearty cheer greeted them from 
the crowd assembled on the beach. Nichols and Pollard 
did not show themselves that morning. Feeling they were 
in a minority they thought it best to keep out of the way. 

The two smacks safely reached the rock, and greatly 
were tli^ crews cheered to behold two figures standing 
at the door of the lighthouse, who waved their hands to 
to them in token of encouragement. Jordan then was-ali'\'c 
at all events, and there stood their good friend the parson 


Deliverance. 


i6i 


safe and well. Every effort must be made to rescue them 
and bring them once more to shore. But thiSj owing to 
the heaviness of the swell, was no easy matter. Towards 
noon, when the tide began to ebb, the sea became some- 
what smoother, and^ after repeated attempts Owen at last 
succeeded in getting his boat sufficiently near to the rock 
to throw out a rope which Arthur caught and made fast 
to the capstan there. The clergyman, who had been 
keenly watching the hitherto unsuccessful efforts of his 
brave friends to rescue himself and his companion, was 
convinced that Jordan ought to be the first to leave the 
rock, for with his present disordered mind and unstrung 
nerves, to be left for however short a time there alone, 
might have the most serious effects upon him. 

‘‘Now, Jordan,’^ he said, when they had made fast the 
rope, “ spring into the boat, when it comes close enough ; 
donff wait for me, for I shan’t leave the rock till I see you 
safely away from it.” 

“ All right, sir ! ” he replied, “ I’ll take care not to be left 
here alone again, if it were even for a few moments. I could 
hardly help throwing myself into the sea, I fear, sir.” 

“ Make yourself easy, my good fellow, I won’t leave you 
alone ; look, here they come nearer than ever this time, now 
a good pull at the rope — no, they’re off again — better luck 
next time, I hope.” 

At last, after three vain attempts, Owen succeeded in 
getting his boat near enough for both the men to spring 
into it almost simultaneously. A hearty cheer rose from 
the crews of both smacks, Owen grasped the parson’s hand 
— “thank God, sir,” he said “that^we have you among 
us once more, and that you are safe and well , we have 
been very anxious about you, sir, on shore, and the 
squire has done nothing but gallop up and down along 
the coast all day, ^nd far into the night, too; we’d have 


1 62 The Watchers 07 i the Longs hips, 

put out before this, sir, I can assure you, but it was quite 
impossible.’’ 

“ I know that, Owen ; I never expected you before ; I was 
certain you would come the first moment there was any 
chance of landing here, and I’ve nothing to complain of. 
I’ve experienced what a lighthouse-keeper’s life is, and 
I’ve been some little help to my friend here, I hope, haven’t 
I, Jordan ? ” 

“That you have, sir,” replied Jordan, and now that he 
spoke for the first time, the attention of Owen and the other 
sailors was directed towards him. So startled and horrified 
were they by his changed appearance, his white hair, his 
sunken cheeks, the scared look in his eyes, that some of the 
men almost dropped their oars from their hands; they 
scarcely recognized the sturdy, hale, determined-looking 
man whom but a few days before they had landed on the 
rock. They all gazed at the poor fellow askance, as if he 
were some inhabitant of another world, but none ventured 
to ask a question or make a remark. 

Arthur, of course, noticed their amazement. 

“Poor Jordan has had a hard time of it,” he said; 
“ I am very thankful I reached him just at the right 
moment.” 

None of the men liked to ask for further explanations, 
but Owen said, “ We have only done half our work, sir, we 
have got you into the boat a.nd off the rock, but now I must 
land on the rock, for, till you get some one else, I feel it’s 
my duty to be the lighthouse-keeper.” 

“No, Owen,” said Arthur, firmly, “ nothing of the kind. 
It is, inde^ a grief to me that the lamps won’t be lighted 
to-night, and that we can’t tell how long it will be ere they 
burn again , but on this point I’m determined, no one- 
must pass a night again on that rock alone if I can hinder 
it.” 


Deliverance. 


163 

But, sir, I^m not in the least afraid ; Tm not a stranger 
to these parts like Jordan; and think what a bad effect 
it will have that, after the lights have once begun to burn, 
they should cease even for a time. How all the bad 
fellows down at the Cove will rejoice ; they’ll say that the 
parson is foiled after all, and that his scheme has turned 
out a regular failure. You’d better let me land, sir; in a 
day or two, perhaps, you’ll find me a companion, then you’ll 
feel more easy about me.” 

“No, Owen, I have made up my mind ; so say no more 
about it, it is settled for the present.” 

Much as Arthur admired Owen’s bravery and spirit of 
self-sacrifice, nothing would induce him to alter this 
decision. That his scheme had failed, he must confess, 
but he trusted it was only a temporary failure, and that ere- 
long the lamps would shine brighter than ever.^ 

Anxiously had the progress of the boats been watched 
from the shore. The squire stood at the extreme point of 
the Land’s End and gazed through his telescope at the light- 
house. Every attempt and failure to effect a landing was ob- 
served by him, as well as by the groups of men and women 
who gathered together at spots where they could obtain 
a good view of the smacks and their proceedings. When 
the brave young parson was observed on board, and the 
boats were seen to turn homewards, shouts rent the air, 
and when he landed, many of the men who had formerly 
looked upon him as an enemy, grasped his hand as warmly 
as if welcoming a friend. Arthur was deeply gratified. He 
felt that the two days spent in the lighthouse had by no 
means been lost ones ; he had gained experience, he had 
won friends. But he dared not be too sanguine, he knew 
how easily the ignorant are moved by what appeals to their 
feelings — how transient are the opinions of an excited 
multitude, 


164 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

The squire was overjoyed when he once more held his 
son’s hand in his. He had passed a terribly anxious time, 
but now that he had him safe home again, he was proud 
of his valor and daring ; though his son was a parson 
(which he never ceased to regret), he had proved by his 
pluck that he had spirit and courage enough to have made 
a first* rate soldier or sailor. He was never tired of talking 
and hearing about Arthur’s expedition to the Longships, 
and of the days and nights he had spent there. 

On the evening of that day it was the turn of Arthur s 
enemies to rejoice. No friendly light beamed from the 
Longships that night. There was a noisy carouse at the 
village ale-house. 

“ The parson’s fine scheme for taking the bread out of 
our mouths has come to nothing,” said Nichols ; ‘‘ what’s 
the good of a lighthouse without a light in it, I should like 
to know ? lliey’ll never get any one to live there after 
what’s happened.” 

‘‘ No, indeed,” answered Pollard. “ Did you ever see 
such a poor wretched object as that fellow Jordan } why, I 
could scarcely believe my own eyes when I saw him pass 
up the road, his hair is as white as old Harvey’s, and when 
he walks he totters and trembles.” 

‘‘ I could not have believed it either,” said another of 
the party, ‘‘ couldn’t have thought that a few days could 
have made such a change in a fellow. He was strong and 
hearty enough when he started the beginning of last week.” 

“ Ah ! I always told you how it would be,” said 
Nichols. “ It’s what the Methodists would call a judg- 
ment upon Jfitn, I suppose ! ” 

I’m told,” said another, ‘‘ it was all owing to that 
horrible howling and roaring in the cavern under th^ rock. 
It frightened the fellow so that he lost his wits and nearly 
w^nt mad,” 


Deliverance. 165 

And would have gone so quite if the parson hadn’t got 
to him,” said Pollard. 

“ He seems none the worse for it, though,” remarked 
Nichols. ‘‘ I only wish he’d stopped there.” 

‘‘ Well, his fine plans are all baulked, there’s no doubt,” 
said Pollard, ‘‘ and that’s a good job.” 

‘‘ He’ll be up to some fresh pranks ere long,” replied 
Nichols, ‘‘we must make the best use of tfie time while 
we can, dark nights and stormy weather coming on, let’s 
keep a good lookout for wrecks, and hope for a better 
season than we had last winter.” 

As may well be imagined, Arthur lost no time in trying 
to find a successor to the unfortunate Jordan. On the 
following Monday he started for Falmouth and Plymouth, 
making inquiries of the naval authorities, of well-known 
shipowners, and shipping-agents, but all his efforts were 
fruitless. There was a great scarcity of men in those days ; 
all who were strong and able-bodied were draughted into 
the army and navy, and it was above all things necessary 
for Arthur to secure a man of. good and trustworthy 
character. Such an one he could nowhere hear of. Mr. 
Smith, the shipowner, who had furnished the money to 
build the lighthouse, was equally unsuccessful in his endea- 
vors, and much vexed that his benevolent scheme had so 
early proved a failure. Baffled and bitterly disappointed, 
Arthur at the end of the week returned home. 

It was hard to bear the ill-concealed mockery and exulta- 
tion of his enemies. Sneers often greeted him as he 
passed through the village. The ground he had gained by 
his courageous adventure on the Longships seemed to be 
already lost. 

The story of Jordan’s adventure on the Longships 
soon spread throughout the country and along the coast. 
It is needless to say that it was marvellously exaggerated j 


1 66 The Watchers o?i the Longs hips. 

but that the man’s hair had turned white from fear in a 
single night was a fact terrible enough without any exaggera- 
tion. His fate was quoted as a warning to others. He had 
gone back to live at Truro with his daughter, and many 
had seen him and spoken to him. Any man who under- 
took the post of lighthouse-keeper, after what had occurred 
to Jordan, must either be of unexampled coolness and 
bravery, or come from some remote part of the countr}^ to 
which the tale of that wretched man’s troubles had not 
penetrated. Though Arthur really required two men, he 
would for the present have been content with one, as Owen 
was quite willing and ready to do his share of the work, 
in fact he constantly urged the parson to consent to his 
going to the Longships alone. But on this point, anxious 
as he was that the lighthouse should be manned, Arthur 
was still quite decided. 


A Cruise aud a Lo}ig Fight. 


167 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A CRUISE AND A LONG FIGHT. 

“ In our sails all soft and sweetly, 

Yet with bold, resistless force. 

Breathe the winds of heaven, and fleetly 
Wing us on our watery course ; 

Swift and swifter furrowing deep. 

Through the mighty waves that keep 
Not a trace where we have been : 

On we speed to lands unseen. 

Be our voyage, brethren, such 
That if direst peril came. 

Wreck and ruin could not touch 
Aught but this our weary frame ; 

That may gladly sleep the while, 

Still and blest the soul shall smile 
In the eternal peace of heaven 
That our God hath surely given.” 

~ Fouqu£ 

It was not very long after Lord Howe’s glorious victory on 
the I St of June, when Philip, who had been commended by 
the officers for his bravery in the action, was transferred 
from the “ Royal Sovereign ” to another vessel. Since 
Bob’s death he had more than ever been a victim to perse- 
cution and annoyance of every kind from the rough and 
ungodly fellows among the crew. Edwards had never for- 
gotten his struggle with Philip, in which, partly by Bob’s 
timely interference, he had been foiled. He never lost an 
opportunity of injuring or tormenting Philip, and setting 
on the other lads to do what he dared not attempt himself. 
He was nicknamed the Saint and the Methodist ; he had 


1 68 The Watc/icrs ou the Lojigships. 

not now a single friend from whom he could get any s}Tn- 
pathy; he therefore had no reason to regret the order 
which moved him to another ship. The ‘‘ Redoubtable 
was a fifty-gun frigate ; she formed part of a squadron 
which was despatched to look after British interests in the 
West Indies. Philip found but little difference between 
his new and his old messmates. When the former ob- 
served, as they soon did, that he did not swear or use bad 
language, that he was quiet and retiring, they soon singled 
him out to be a laughing-stock. His kindly disposition, 
indeed, as well as his fearlessness of danger, which had 
already on several occasions been displayed, won him a 
few friends among the steadier of the crew, but the worst 
characters soon found out that he was religiously inclined — 
an offence on board the “ Redoubtable ’’ as well as every- 
where else in those times. 

There was, too, at that period far greater hatred and 
opposition to religion among the officers than is now the 
case. Not only was it singular and unpopular to be reli- 
gious, but it was also held to be cowardly ; none could 
believe that a Methodist soldier or sailor would be as fear- 
less in the presence of an enemy, or fight with the same 
bravery, as a man who never spoke without an oath, and 
who was utterly indifferent to every principle, both of 
religion and morality. The officers, too, had far more 
power than at present over the persons of the men ; the 
horrible system of flogging for the most trivial offences, as 
well as for acts of insubordination, was in full force, and 
often had Philip shuddered when he had seen this punish- 
ment mercilessly inflicted on some of his messmates, but 
hitherto he had escaped it himself. 

The captain of the Redoubtable was a hard and 
severe man ; he maintained the strictest discipline, coolh 
standing by while the lash was inflicted, and utterly un- 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. 169 

moved though the victim fainted beneath this brutal treat- 
ment. The officers and midshipmen, while they were as 
cruel and heartless towards their subordinates as the 
captain, were in other respects even worse and more to be 
feared than he was, for though the captain was stern and 
cruel, yet he was just , and though he waj> destitute of 
sympathy and kindly feeling, he Was never vindictive. 
But many of the officers did not hesitate to punish men to 
satisfy their own spite , they were selfish and dissolute in 
character, petty tyrants who loved to feel their power, and 
delighted in nothing so much as being able to inflict 
degrading punishments on those who ventured to oppose 
their will. 

Philip had not been long on board the Redoubtable ” 
before several of the officers discovered that he was in 
many respects above the ordinary run of seamen — better 
educated, able to read and write, neat in appearance, and 
respectful in manner. These, however, were not regarded 
as recommendations, and when they remarked that his 
language was free from the oaths and impurities in which 
they indulged themselves quite as much as the men, they 
began to suspect that Philip was a Methodist,'' and 
therefore a fit object for mockery and persecution. 

One young lieutenant, Bayley by name, had conceived a 
particular spite against Philip. He would always put him 
to the most degrading work, speak to him as if he were a 
dog rather than a human being, and garnish his language 
with a greater number of vile oaths and horrible expres- 
sions than he was in the habit of usirtg when he addressed 
the other men. 

One evening this lieutenant came on deck, and, in his 
usual brutal manner, seeing Philip unoccupied, ordered 
him to perform some degrading office. He was about to 
comply with alacrity when the officer, who was rather the 


170 The Watchers oji the Longships. 

worse for drink, turned round upon him, gave him a severe 
cuff on the head without the slightest provocation, and said, 
with a volley of oaths, ‘‘Take that, .you wretched young 
milksop. I’ll teach you to be like other men, and not set 
yourself up for a saint here on bo^ird ship.” 

Philip, accustomed to Lieutenant Bayley’s brutality, 
made no reply, but this only further irritated the officer. 
“ I say, why don’t you ever swear, you young fool ? Don’t 
stand there staring at me, answer my question,” he 
shouted. 

“ I don’t think it right, sir,” said Philip, quietly, “ and I 
don’t see the use of it.” 

“ Hang the use of it ! ” said the lieutenant. “ I’ll soon 
have such ideas thrashed out of your head, and teach you 
how to set yourself up above every one here ” 

“ I don’t wish to set myself up as better than others, 
sir,” said Philip, respectfully. 

“Then why don’t you act like others and talk like 
others ? ” said the officer. 

“ Because I can’t do and say what I know to be wrong, sir.” 

“ You know to be wrong ! and how do you know it, I 
should like to know? If that isn’t setting yourself up 
above others I should like to know what is ? ” 

Philip did not reply. The officer continued, “ I tell you 
what it is, young rascal, and I’ve made up my mind to it; 
I’ll not put up with any of your Methodistical doings here. 
I’ll have them flogged out of you before long, so take 
warning in time, ancl let me hear you swear and talk like 
other lads, — for if you don’t you’ll repent it.” 

With these words the officer turned away to join a com- 
panion who had just come on the deck, leaving Philip at 
his woflc, and to no very pleasant reflections. What could 
he do ? Swear he never would, rather would he endure 
the dreaded lash than utter a foul word or blasphemous 


A Cruise and a Long Fight, i/l 

oath. He knew how Lieutenant Bayley hated him, but he 
hoped these words were only threats which his obedience 
to orders and general good conduct would make it impos- 
sible for his ene/ny to carry into execution. But the poor 
lad felt very downcast , he had not a single human soul to 
whom he could tell his grief or ask advice ; he could only 
lift up his heart in silent prayer to his Father in heaven, 
beseeching Him now to give him strength and courage 
boldly to stand up for Him, and to submit to pain and 
suffering rather than deny or dishonor Him. 

Philip often, as he stood on duty, gazed into the star-lit 
sky, so glorious in that tropical zone through which they 
were cruising, and thought of his beloved home far away in 
old England , wondered how his father fared, and his little 
sister, whether they often spoke of him, and if they were 
beginning to recover his loss. Would the day ever come on 
which he should again look upon that beloved cottage on 
the wind-blown height by the stormy sea in dear, far-off 
Cornwall? When he thought of the many dangers to 
which his life was exposed from war and tempest, and the 
thousand accidents which beset a seaman's career, the 
chances seemed against it. On the other hand, God could 
bring him back “to his father’s house in peace,” and 
fervently did he pray that such might be His will. 

Cruising about among the West Indian Islands the 
“Redoubtable” constantly captured valuable prizes; now 
and then, too, her crew had sharp engagements with the 
enemy, which hitherto had ended in victory to the English 
cause, and resulted in no loss of life to the victors. 

Lieutenant Bayley meanwhile grew more incensed against 
poor Philip since the interview we have described. He 
kept the sharpest lookout that he might catch him at some 
neglect of duty, and tried to irritate him so as to make him 
commit an act of insubordination — but all was to no avail. 


1/2 The Watchers on the Lougships. 

Yet Philip’s life, if can well be imagined, was a very 
wretched one. Latterly, however, he had noticed that one 
of the petty officers, an elderly man with kindly features, 
as well as one of the ordinary seamen, wh6 seemed steadier 
than the rest, were inclined to treat him differently from 
the others, and often, when no one else was near, would 
say a cheering word to the poor lad. 

Beneath a cloudless sky and on a glassy sea they were 
sailing among the spicy islands of the West Indies. It was 
winter now in England, but here the climate was warm and 
delightful ; how different, Philip often thought, from the cold 
stormy weather to which, at that time of the year, he was 
accustomed on the bleak shores of Cornwall. 

One morning Philip and another lad of about his own 
age, a lazy, dissolute young fellow, who never lost an 
opportunity of worrying and tormenting his companion, 
were ordered to wash the decks. Philip, as usual, set to 
work with a will, and his portion was soon done. Sam 
Wilks, on the contrary, dawdled over his task, amusing 
himself by throwing dirty water at Philip, feeling sure he 
would stand any amount of bullying and insult, as if a 
Methodist must be a coward and dared not fight. 

However, there are things which are hard for human 
nature to bear, and young blood, even when under the best 
and holiest influences, is apt occasionally to rebel and 
assert its rights. So it was at last with Philip Tresilian. 
To be called cowardly and lazy by one of the laziest and 
most cowardly fellows on board, to hear his religion and 
all that he held dearest on earth scoffed at and abused 
with oaths and filthy language, to be hindered in his work, 
while every remonstrance he made was responded to by 
fresh annoyances~all this was at last too much for his temper. 

“Sam,” he exclaimed at last, “ stop this foolery, of you’ll 
repent it, I can tell you.” 


A Cruise and a Long Fight, 


173 


‘^Repent it * I should like to see that ! Rm not afraid of 
a Methodist like you. You daren’t touch me, I know,” 

: said Sam in an insolent voice, coming close up to Philip 
and shaking his fist in his face. 

You’ll pretty soon see that I do dare make you pay for 
it, and pretty smartly, too, so you’d better shut up and 
leave me alone. 

Sam, coward as he was, did not feel at all alarmed by 
Philip’s words or by his fierce look. He did not believe 
he would fight him. He imagined that he would stand any 
amount of ridicule. He knew, too, how unpopular Philip 
was, and that in a quarrel none would be found to espouse 
his cause ; so he went back a few steps, and taking up the 
dirty mop with which he had been washing the deck, 
dashed it full into Philip’s face with a loud laugh, ex- 
claiming, — 

Ha ! ha ! I’d like to see you touch me, indeed. Why 
your parson at home would find it out if you did, and 
preach you a nice sermon for it. I’m not afraid of a fool 
of a Methodist like you — there, take that.” 

Philip, without a moment’s hesitation, sprang like a tiger 
upon his assailant ; blow after blow fell heavily on the head 
and shoulders of the luckless Sam, whose roars and yells 
soon called up' spectators to the affray. 

Among the first of these was Lieutenant Bayley — 
certainly not a little surprised when he perceived Philip 
Tresilian fighting. Sam Wilks lay bleeding and howling 
on the deck. There was no doubt as to who was the victor, 
and the battle had been of very few minutes’ duration. 
The officer was delighted that he had at last an opportu- 
nity of punishing Philip for a breach of discipline, as well 
as of heaping insults upon him and ridiculing his religion. 

What’s all this ? ” he said, in a loud voice ; “ I’ll have 
p.o fighting here ! Neglect of duty, too. Why is not the 


174 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


deck washed down?” he continued, glancing at Sam’s 
unfinished portion. 

‘‘ My part is done, sir,” replied Philip, turning round and 
facing the lieutenant with flashing eyes ; ‘‘ that is Sam’s.” 

Then it is you who have prevented him from doing it 
by fighting,’’ said the officer. “ I thought Methodists never 
fought — if they do they must be punished like others,” he 
continued, with a sneer. 

“ I was provoked, sir ; it is more than any lad can bear 
to stand the insults that I have to meet with every hour — 
and from Sam Wilks more than any one. My blood was 
^ up, sir, when he stuck the dirty mop in my face.” 

‘‘ It’s all a lie, sir,” yelled Sam ; “ he began it. He came 
upon me all unawares, when I was hard at work, nasty 
coward that he is — to pay off an old score. If I’d only 
had fair play I could have thrashed him easily, sir.” 

“ Oh, that’s the truth of the case, is it ? ” said the lieu- 
tenant; “just like a Methodist and a coward — you shall 
pay for this, Tresilian ; you won’t escape this time without 
a flogging — twenty-five lashes at the very least.” 

“ I have told the truth, sir,” said Philip ; “ why should 
you believe Sam more than me. Have I ever told you a 
lie, sir, and isn’t Sam known to be the biggest liar on 
board ? I know I was wrong to strike him, but to be 
called a coward is more than ” 

“ Hold your tongue, you impudent young beggar,” said 
the lieutenant, with an oath, “ I’ll have none of your argu- 
ing with me. I’d sooner believe Sam than a Methodist 
like you, any day. This evening you’ll make acquaintance 
with tl^ lash for the first time, and I shan’t be sorry.” 

Lieutenant Bayley would gladly have had the punish- 
ment inflicted at once, but the captain was on shore, as 
they were then at anchor off one of the smaller islands, 
and it required his consent before the flogging could 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. 


175 


be administered. Meanwhile he ordered his victim to be 
incarcerated in the dark cell set apart for men guilty of 
insubordination and misconduct. 

Here Philip had plenty of time for sad reflection. Again 
had his temper got the mastery over him. He had broken 
through his good resolutions ; he had not yet learned to 
bear insult and persecution as his Divine Master had done 
for his sake. Tears of deep penitence flowed down his 
cheeks, as he prayed his Father above to pardon his sin 
and to receive him again into His favor. 

The captain did not come on board till late in the 
evening, when orders were immediately given to weigh 
anchor and sail in a northerly direction to join some other 
vessels of the squadron, information having been received 
that the enemy were in considerable force in those waters, 
and that there was some risk of his frigate being surprised 
and overcome by superior numbers. 

There was so much bustle and excitement on board that 
evening that poor Philip was forgotten even by Lieutenant 
Bayley, and he remained alone and unnoticed in his cell, 
which was so small that he had not room either to stand 
upright or to lie down in it. 

He was faint and hungry, for he had had nothing to eat 
all day, but his physical sufferings were small in comparison 
to his mental pain, and to the disappointment and shame 
which he felt at having given way to passion, and thereby 
brought disgrace upon the religion he professed. 

Time passed away slowly enough in that dark hole,, where 
there was nothing to distinguish day from night ; but the 
rattling of cables and the heaving of anchors in the evening 
informed the prisoner that the frigate was about to leave 
her moorings and again set sail. The captain had come on 
board, then. The terrible moment poor Philip thought could 
not be far off wlicr. he would endure the dreaded punishment. 


1/6 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

It was not so much for the pain that he cared, intense and 
fearful as that must be, — for often he had seen strong men 
borne away fainting and bleeding after the infliction of the 
lash, — but it was the disgrace that he minded most of all. 
He felt’ too, that he was innocent, — he had not neglected 
his duty. No officer who had any sense of justice would 
have ordered him to be punished on the accusation of a lad 
like Sam, notorious for lying. He knew he was about to 
be flogged merely to gratify Lieutenant Bayley’s spite against 
him. However, he made up his mind he would bear it 
bravely. His Lord, to whom he had confessed his sin, 
would, he hoped, pardon the weakness of his erring nature, 
and he felt sure would also give him strength to endure the 
cruel punishment. 

With such thoughts in his mind, wearied and exhausted, 
he sunk into a restless slumber, starting at every sound, 
and expecting every moment to be summoned on deck and 
to hear the captain’s loud voice order the boatswain’s mate 
to carry out the sentence. 

In this state he remained for some two or three hours, 
when he was aroused by the sound of voices near him. As 
it was a part of the vessel not much frequented, he was sure 
now that his time was come, and he almost wished it might 
be so, — anything would be better than suspense. But no, 
he was wrong. The voices seemed close to the door of the 
cell, and they were very low, but he soon was able to dis- 
tinguish what they said, and, to his utter amazement and 
pleasure, he heard the blessed words of Holy Scripture, 
the 42 d Psalm, read almost in a whisper, in a tone he had 
('crtainly heard before, but could not recognize. 

‘‘ Like' as the hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth 
my soul after thee, O God. . . . My tears have been my 
meat day and night, while they daily say unto me, Where 
is thv God ? ” 




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A Cruise and a Long Fight. 


177 


Every verse as it fell upon Philip’s ear seemed more and 
more appropriate to his case. He felt, indeed, as if an angel 
from heaven had been sent to him to pour the balm of con- 
solation into his wounded heart. 

There was silence now for a few moments, then a short 
fervent prayer was offered up in plain familiar words, like 
those of a child asking a favor of its father. There was 
a petition for more faith and love in Him who loved and 
died for us, for protection from danger in storm and battle, 
for courage not to deny or be ashamed of Him, and for all 
on board the ship that they might be converted and brought 
to the knowledge of the truth. Then the ‘‘ Our Father ” 
was repeated by two voices slowly, and with great fervor. 
This was followed by another interval of silence. Then 
he heard the following conversation, — 

“We can’t sing to-night, Tom, we might be overheard, 
there are so many moving about, but I’ll say one of Mr. 
Wesley’s hymns to you if you like.” 

“Yes, do. Bill, it always does me good to hear one of 
them, and I’m not in the best spirits to-night.” 

“Well, listen, I don’t know all of it, but only some 
verses ; it’ll cheer you up a bit, I hope, Tom ; it always does 
me, it’s something like the psalm I’ve just been reading to 
you : — 

“ Commit thou all thy griefs 
And ways into his hands, 

To his sure truth and tender care 
Who earth and heaven commands : 

Who points the clouds their course, 

Whom winds and seas obey. 

He shall direct thy wandering feet, 

He shall prepare thy way. 

Thou on the Lord rely. 

So safe shalt thou go on, 

Fix on his work thy steadfast eye. 

So shall thy work be done. 


178 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


No profit canst thou gain 
By self-consuming care ; 

To him commend thy cause, His ear 
Attends the softest prayer. 

Give to the winds thy fears, 

Hope and be undismayed, 

God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears, 

God shall lift up thy head ; 

Through waves and clouds and storms. 

He gently clears the way ; 

Wait thou His time, so shall this night 
Soon end in joyous day.” 

“Well, I never heard a finer hymn than that, Bill. How 
well youVe got it off, too.’’ 

“ Oh, there’s ever so much more of it ; but that’s all I 
can remember now.” 

“ It’s done me good. I’ve been feeling downcast all 
day. This little meeting of ours down here. Bill, though 
we don’t often manage to get it, is a mercy we have to be 
thankful for.” 

“ It is, indeed, Tom. To get a word together now and 
then to cheer one another up, and to feel that we are fight- 
ing the same battle, and serving the same Master, is a 
comfort, indeed, among our trials.” 

“ You remember that lad, Tresilian I think is his name, 
who came aboard some months ago from the ‘Royal 
Sovereign.’ Well, have you heard what happened to him 
this morning ? ” 

“ No, Tom ; but I’m sure he’s a God-fearing lad. I 
never hear him swear,*I’ve never seen him drunk, and I 
don’t know any one else on board I can say that of. I’m 
always-Trying to get an opportunity of saying a word to 
cheer him up, for he has a deal to bear, not that I haven’t 
gone through it all myself before ; but what were you going 
to tell me about him ? ” 

“ Why, this morning, it appears that he and Sam Wilks 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. 


179 


were set to wash the deck, they got up a quarrel between 
them, and Tresilian gave Sam a drubbing that he won’t 
forget for many a long day.” 

I shouldn’t have thought the lad would have fought. 
But I suppose he was provoked. I’m not sorry that lazy 
rascal Wilks got a thrashing.” 

“ But that’s not all the story. Bill. Up comes Lieuten- 
ant Bayley and finds Wilks bleeding and blubbering on 
the deck. He tells, as you might expect, a lie about the 
whole affair, which, as you would also expect, the lieuten- 
ant believes ; he won’t listen to a word Tresilian has to 
say, sends him down to the blackhole, and says he will 
have him flogged when the captain comes on board.” 

‘‘ Poor lad ! and it’ll be done, too, sure enough, to-mor- 
row morning. I suppose he’s forgotten all about it to-night. 
I am heartily sorry for him.” 

‘‘ I suppose he’s in the prison yonder ? Can’t we go and 
say a kind word to him through the door. Bill 1 ” 

“ He may be in the other cell ; but if he’s in this one he 
must have heard all we said, unless he’s asleep, poor fel- 
low. Well, I’ll go and speak to him at once.” 

Not a word of this conversation had been lost on' Philip; 
but his hopes of kindly sympathy were dispelled by sudden 
shouts from above, and the shuffling of feet as of many 
men running up and down the ladders. Then there was a 
whisper of Come, Tom, all hands are wanted aloft. We 
mustn’t be found down here. We’ll get a chance of speak- 
^ ing to the poor fellow another time, perhaps.” And then 
he was left once more in solitude. 

Though Philip was disappointed, he felt far more cheer- 
ful than he had done since the sad event of the morning. 
Here were two men who felt for him, and who, like him, 
were endeavoring to serve God in the midst of this un- 
godly crew. Who could they be ? At last he remeiu- 


i8o The Watchers on the Longships, 

bered the petty officer and the sailor whom he so often saw 
together, and who occasionally had given him a kindly 
look, though they had never yet spoken to him. Surely 
these must be the two men whose conversation he had 
overheard. 

Soon after the frigate had set sail. Lieutenant Bayley 
informed the captain of the occurrence of the morning. 
He naturally exaggerated Philip’s misdemeanor, and it 
was settled that Philip should be flogged early next morning. 

The glassy surface of the sea was scarcely stirred, so 
gentle was the breeze, and very slowly did the Redoubt- 
able ” advance through the calm waters. A sharp watch 
-was kept up at the maintop. The squadron lay some dis- 
tance off, and the captain felt a little uneasy at the ac- 
counts he had received of the nearness and superior 
strength of the enemy. The frigate was not a fast sailor, 
so there was great need of watchfulness, and some cause 
for anxiety. 

It was one of those brilliant moonlight nights such as 
are only to be seen in tropical regions. Near midnight the 
men on watch at the maintop announced that they per- 
ceived in the far away distance three sail, but whether they 
belonged to friend or foe they could not as yet distinguish. 
As English ships were not expected in that quarter, the 
captain and officers had but little doubt that they belonged 
to the enemy’s fleet, if so, strenuous efforts must be made 
to escape them. Every inch of canvas was ordered to be 
spread to catch the feeble breeze ; the hope that, as was 
usualiy the case, it would freshen in the morning, was 
damped-by the reflection that it would serve the enemy as 
well, if not better, than it did their own ship. 

It was the excitement caused by this discovery, and by 
the stringent orders of the captain for all hands to set to 
work, which Philip had heard in his cell, and whigh had 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. 


i8t 


hastily sent his two friends aloft, when they were about 
to speak to him. 

At daybreak the crew were mustered. Philip alone 
was missing. Lieutenant Bayley reminded the captain of 
Philip’s misconduct, and of the punishment he had prom- 
ised should be inflicted on him that morning. 

The captain was irritated at the mention of flogging. 

1 can’t spare any hands to-day, Bayley. Absurd to 
maim a strong lad when, in all probability, we shall want 
every able-bodied fellow we can get to fight the French. 
If he fights well he’ll be let off the flogging, if . not, he shall 
have it with interest another day. Quartermaster, release 
the prisoner at once, and set him to work.” 

Lieutenant Bayley did not reply, he turned away on his 
heel, vexed and disappointed. Common sense and right 
were on the captain’s side, so he dared not dispute with 
him. However, he would remember Philip, and take 
precious good care that though the flogging was deferred, it 
should be administered in the end. 

Philip, pale and exhausted, was now brought on deck, 
the captain swore at him, and informed him that he had 
been let off the flogging he so richly deserved for the pres- 
ent, but "that he was very much mistaken if he fancied he 
was going to get off it altogether. But when he saw how ill 
the lad looked from want of food, and confinement, he gave 
orders that he should have his breakfast before going to 
work. 

The greatest excitement now prevailed on board the 
“ Redoubtable.” With dawn of day the breeze freshened, 
and every sail was spread to catch the favoring gales, but, 
notwithstanding all the exertions of both officers and crew, 
the three vessels, which none doubted now belonged to the 
enemy, were slowly and surely gaining upon them. Their 
only hope was that they might come up with the English 


1 82 The Watchers on the ' Longships. 

squadron before they were overtaken and outnumbered by 
the foe. Every eye was strained to northwards, but not a 
speck was to be seen on that horizon. 

Towards noon there was a dead calm, during which no 
advance was made by either side, and though with even- 
ing rose a gentje breeze, and the exertions of the crew 
were again renewed, they could not but feel very anxious 
as night fell, and concealed the pursuers from their gaze. 
Morning, they all felt, must decide their fate, either reveal- 
ing the friendly squadron near enough to come to their aid, 
or disclosing the enemy’s ships in such close proximity that 
escape would be hopeless. When the day dawned all eyes 
were strained first to the north, then to the south, striving 
to discern through the faint mist which covered the horizon 
the outline of friend or foe. The keenest eye could not 
discover the trace of a sail to the north, while the three 
French vessels had gained so rapidly on the ‘‘ Redoubtable ” 
that their gay tricolor flags were distinctly visible. 

A council was now held by the captain and officers of 
the “ Redoubtable ” to consider the line of action it was 
best to take under the circumstances, whether they should 
continue their flight, or lay to at once and await the enemy’s 
attack. Some were for immediate action ; the battle, they 
said, could not be avoided, terrible as were the odds against 
them, and the sooner, therefore, it was over the better. 
Others were for continuing to press on with vigor to the 
north, since help might not be far distant, while experience 
taught them that on the appearance of any English ships in 
all probability the French would at once take to flight. The 
latter cpynsel prevailed. At noon they perceived to their no 
little delight that one of the French ships was lagging behind 
the others, some accident had probably disabled her, but the 
other two slowly continued to gain on the Redoubtable.’’ 

Well, what do you think’ll come of it, Bill ? ” said 


A Cruise aud a Long Fight, 183 

Tom Marriott to Bill Forster, the two praying men to whom 
we have previously alluded. 

“ I can’t say, I’m sure, Tom. We shall have to fight for 
it, thero^« little doubt — two, if not three to one, against us, 
so there doesn’t seem much chance.” 

‘‘ No, indeed ; still there’s no telling. Such things have 
been known before as one English ship beating three French- 
men.” 

“ Oh, yes, Tom, and there’s no doubt it will be a despe- 
rate business, for our captain will fight to the last ; but 
what makes it worse for us is, that those three French line- 
of-battle ships are all of them bigger than our frigate.” 

“ True enough. Bill ; and whatever comes of it, there’s 
no doubt there’ll be precious slaughter among us.” 

“ There will, indeed, Tom, and it’s just what I’ve been 
thinking all the morning. How few there are among us 
prepared to die, to appear with all their sins before the 
presence of God ! ” 

May the Lord have mercy upon them, and on us, too. 
Bill. For my part, I feel that I am a great sinner, and not 
fit to die.” 

None of us are, Tom, but it is from our sins that Jesus 
has died to save us. We must look to Him and trust 
Him, and He will be our refuge and strength in this great 
danger. If it’s His will that either of us fall doing our 
duty, fighting for our king and country. He will be with 
us at our last hour and receive us into His eternal king- 
dom.” 

• ‘‘Your good words always cheer me up. Bill. I wish I 
had as much faith as you. But did you hear that the poor 
lad who was in prison last night, and sentenced to be 
flogged, has been let off by the captain; and there he is at 
work as usual, just coming down from the maintop.” 

“Yes, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, as they 


184 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 




say; our French pursuers have dene that poor fellow a 
good turn, certainly. Til go and say a kind word to him, 
Fom ; I’ve never yet had a chance to do it.” 

Forster went up to Philip and told him how glad he 
was to see him released. ‘‘ I’m sorry your temper got the 
better of you, my lad, yesterday, but I know how greatly 
you were provoked. There’s a hard time in prospect for 
all of us now. Ah ! which of us can tell where he will be 
this time to-morrow, for ere then we must fight those 
Frenchmen.” 

There seems no doubt of that,” replied Philip. “ I 
know what a battle is, too, for I fought under Lord Howe 
on the first of June, when we won that splendid victory.” 

‘‘ Did you, indeed ? I’ve been in many battles myself, 
too, but they’ve been pretty even ones ; this is likely to be 
a desperate affair, we’re so outnumbered.” 

“ Yes, no doubt of it,” said Philip. “ Was it you and 
your mate I heard talking and reading down near the cock- 
pit last night ? ” 

Yes, — you heard Tom and me, then.” 

I scarcely lost a word. I was locked up in the black- 
hole, more miserable and down-hearted than ever in my 
life before, but the psalm and the hymn you read cheered 
me lip wonderful. I felt that in answer to my prayers God 
had sent me comfort in my trouble, and that whatever 
happened to me — even flogging and disgrace — I’d be 
able to stand it.” 

“ The Lord be praised for His mercy,” said Forster. I 
little thought that any one but Tom was within hearing. 
But noiy^piy lad, farewell, we mustn’t stand talking here. 
May God guard and keep you both in body and soul ! ” 

When evening came the third French ship was some dis- 
tance behind her companions, which were still gaining on 
the “Redoubtable.” Not a speck of any kind was to be 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. TcS5 

seen to the north. There was no doubt now that at early 
dawn the battle would take^^lace. 

It was a busy night. But few hours of rest were 
snatched by either officers or crew. Decks were cleared, 
guns ‘got ready, every preparation made for a desperate 
action. There was to be no surrender ; they were all de- 
termined to fight to the last man, and to stick to their ship 
till she sunk beneath the waves. 

With every inch of canvas spread, and speeding on with 
a favoring breeze, the officers and crew of fhe “ Redoubt- 
able ” hailed the dawn of another day. One of the French 
ships was now almost within gunshot of them, evidently 
ready for battle. 

Drums were now beat to quarters on board the “ Re- 
doubtable,’^ the signal was given to prepare for action, and 
the frigate’s course was altered that she might be in a better 
position to pour a broadside into the first enemy’s vessel 
which approached her. 

Though the captain was a man of few words, he en- 
deavored by a short address to inspirit his crew. Such is 
the indomitable pluck of the British tar that all hearts beat 
with confidence, for, notwithstanding the unequal nature 
of the approaching conflict, they still hoped to snatch a 
victory. 

It was a magnificent morning, the sun had risen in un- 
clouded splendor, pouring his brilliant rays on the 
sparkling sea, and shining on the spreading sails of the 
hostile vessels, giving them an appearance of snowy white- 
ness. All the crew on board the English frigate now 
stood at their guns, while every officer repaired to his 
appointed station. 

The foremost French vessel ran up a signal demanding 
immediate surrender, instantly replied to by a shout of de- 
fiance from the “ Redoubtable,” which now lay-to awaiting 


1 86 The Watchers on the Longships. 

the enemy’s nearer approach. On she came — a monster, an 
eighty-gun ship, nearly twice the size of the frigate. The 
first shot was fired by the “Redoubtable,” striking away 
the enemy’s jibboom. She at once opened a heavy can- 
nonade on the English ship, which, however, being avbided 
by a skilful manoeuvre, fell harmlessly into the sea. It was 
now the turn of the British crew. They poured a furious 
and well-directed broadside on the deck of the Frenchman. 
Every shot seemed to take effect. The groans of the 
wounded now mingled with the exulting shouts of the 
English sailors. The French vessel’s next cannonade did 
some amount of damage to the “ Redoubtable.” One man 
was killed and a few wounded, some spars, too, were 
shivered, but the well-aimed broadside given them in 
return was bestowed with such murderous effect that not 
only was the deck covered with the dead and wounded, 
but the French vessel was so crippled and damaged that 
her commander began to have serious fears as to her safety. 
But as the “ Redoubtable ” — her captain and crew eager 
for closer action, as well as desirous of disabling one 
antagonist before another came up — approached nearer, 
the French ship was able to pour a volley of shell and 
shot which raked the “ Redoubtable’s ” decks, and brought 
down not a few of her brave defenders. 

The second French man-of-war was now within cannon 
shot. She was smaller than her companion, about the 
same size as her English foe. The third ship, anxiously 
watched from the “ Redoubtable’s ” maintop, was descried 
to be also making rapid progress, and in less than an hour 
she, too,^ould be able to take part in the battle 

Every man on board the “ Redoubtable,” from the 
captain downward, felt that a desperate effort must now 
be made, and a tremendous broadside was poured into the 
flanks of the French ship, while at the same time a sharp 


A Cruise and a Long TngJit. 187 ’ 

musketry fire was showered upon her deck from the yards 
of the English frigate. 

But a fresh and more formidable foe was now ready to 
engage the ‘‘ Redoubtable/’ already in some degree weak- 
ened and damaged by her first encounter. The second 
French vessel, her crew fully prepared for action, and con- 
fident of victory, had borne up in such a way as to place the 
English ship between two fires. She, however, was more 
skilfully and rapidly handled than the French vessels, and 
by a clever manoeuvre her captain avoided this danger as 
well as the first cannonade from the second French ship. 
There was little now to be feared from the first of the enemy’s 
vessels, her crew had enough to do to prevent her from sink- 
ing. But there was no escape from a conflict with the 
second ; yet the heroic Englishmen were anything but dis- 
heartened by the issue of the battle so far, and as confident 
of victory as they had been at its commencement. A des- 
perate struggle now ensued. Broadside after broadside 
was poured from either ship, shot and shell raked the decks, 
now strewn with the maimed and mangled bodies of their 
brave defenders. Smoke and fire obscured the brilliant sun- 
light, riddled sails hung drooping down, shouts of, triumph 
were mingled with the groans of the wounded. Victory 
seemed to incline, to the English, though they had lost many 
men, but the issue of the battle must ultimately depend on 
the arrival of the third French vessel. If the “ Redoubtable ” 
could even overcome her present antagonist, it was hardly 
likely she could withstand a third foe, coming fresh into 
the fray, and with her damaged masts and torn sails 
escape would be impossible. The captain, officers, and 
some of the more thoughtful men among the crew began to 
feel this, — still they did not relax their efforts, determined 
as they were to fight to the end. 

And how had it fared with Philip during this desperate 


The Watc/iers on the Longships, 


1 88 


conflict ? He had stood as bravely at his post as he had 
done on the ist of June on board the Royal Sovereign.’’ 
To him a battle was not a new experience, but this was a 
far more terrible combat than the first in which he had been 
engaged. There are two things at which it is said a man 
cannot look steadily, the sun and death, but Philip' had 
now to look death very steadily in the face, for it came 
near to him, as well as to every one else on board, that 
eventful morning. 

But his trust was in his God ; were it His will that he 
should share the fate of those he saw lying dead around 
him, he was ready to submit, hard as it was to part with 
life, and to give up all hope of seeing again in this world 
those he loved the most. Still he was not afraid to die ; 
with sorrow he remembered how often he had offended his 
Saviour, and the disgrace he had recently brought on his 
religion by allowing his temper to get the better of him ; 
but he knew how merciful his dear Lord was to all His 
children, and that “if we confess our sins He is faithful 
and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all 
unrighteousness.” 

Thougjits such as these filled his mind, when, the clouds 
of smoke by which he was surrounded clearing away for a 
moment, he perceived standing close by the petty officer, 
Forster, who had spoken so kindly to him the previous day. 
In the discharge of his duty he had come close up to Philip ; 
both recognized each other at the same moment. “ Ah ! 
my lad,” said Forster, “ so you, too, are still alive and un- 
wounded, thank God ; but it is hot work, isn’t it ? ” 

“Yes, it is, indeed,” replied Philip, “ and what a terrible 
slaughter is going on everywhere. However bravely we 
fight, we must be outnumbered.” 

“ I fear so ; we shall pretty well fight to our last man, I 
expect. But it is sad to think how many of us are unpre- 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. 189 

pared to enter into God’s presence,” said Forster, 
solemnly. 

A fresh roar of cannon drowned his voice, and a cloud of 
smoke hid him from Philip’s view. As it slowly vanished 
it disclosed the French ship so close that a hand-to-hand 
hght must soon ensue. Forster was at Philip’s side, while 
at a very short distance off they perceived Lieutenant Bayley. 

“ A last word, my lad,” said Forster. “ I shall be called 
off from the forecastle ere long, if another grimmer mes- 
senger does not come for me before ; stand, up bravely as 
you have already done for what is right and true and 
honest ; be as fearless of the mockery of your fellows as 
you are now of the enemy’s balls ; continue in the right 
way, and it will bring you peace at the last — a peace 
which, perhaps, is not far off for you and me. Remember 
Him who said, ‘ Be thou faithful unto death, and I will 
give thee ’ ” 

He did not finish the sentence. At that moment a hail 
of musketry poured down upon the “ Redoubtable’s ” decks 
from the enemy’s .yards. Forster, struck by several shots, 
fell, apparently senseless by Philip’s side. ‘‘ Where is your 
God, Forster, now ? ” said Lieutenant Bayley, with a sneer, 
as he turned and looked at the prostrate form which lay 
bleeding on the deck. The wounded man opened his eyes 
and turned them full in the face of the lieutenant. “He 
is here, sir, with me, yes, in the valley of the shadow of 
death. Oh, that He were with you, too, sir ; it is not too 
late if you seek Him now.” 

The lieutenant winced before the earnest gaze of the 
dying man, and turned away. Philip bent over Forster and 
tried to staunch the blood which flowed from his wound. 
“Leave me, my lad,” he said, “it is all over with me, God 
bless you; if you see Tom tell him I’m gone to my home 
above, and give him my Bible and hymn-book, which you’ll 


190 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

find in my pocket, and if you can read, lad, read them fo 
to the poor fellow, for he’s no scholar himself.” 

He could say no more, but with a kindly look at Philip, 
he heaved a deep sigh, and all was over. 

Philip had scarcely been absent three minutes from his 
post, but the keen eye of Lieutenant Bayley had observed 
him. Just as the poor man had breathed his last, and 
Philip was about to fulfil his last request, and take posses- 
sion of his Bible and hymn-book, the lieutenant came up 
angrily to him, exclaiming, with an oath, ‘‘Back to your 
post instantly, you young vagabond ; what are you up to, 
rifling a dead man’s pockets ? Thieves and liars ^s you 
Methodists are ! ” 

While the lieutenant was speaking, the French vessel 
poured her last broadside upon the “ Redoubtable’s ” deck, 
which it strewed with fresh victims, and the return volley 
from the English following almost instantaneously, the 
cloud of smoke was so dense that Philip could not see the 
officer. After securing Forster’s Bible and hymn-book, he 
was groping his way back to his post, not more than four 
paces off, when the first object he beheld, so close to him 
that he must have stumbled over it at the next step, was 
the lifeless form of Lieutenant Bayley, whose head had been 
shattered by a cannon ball. At this terrible sight Philip 
shuddered and started back. “ May God have mercy on 
his soul ! ” he murmured. How different, he thought, had 
been the last moments of these two men ! But this was no 
time for reflection ; no attention could be paid to the dying 
or the dead ; contending ships, now close alongside, had 
grappled^ith each other, and an obstinate battle, in which 
Philip had to take a part, was proceeding. The English, 
diminished as were their numbers, were getting the better 
of their antagonists ; many of them had already pressed 
over the sides into the French ship, when the near ap- 


A Cruise and a Long Fight. “ 19 1 

proach of the third frigate at last finally decided the issue 
of the conflict. The Redoubtable’s drSms sounded a 
retreat, and those who had boarded the Frenchman re- 
turned to their own decks, a desperate effort being now 
made to disentangle the vessel from her adversary. Before 
this could be effected, the third ship had approached suf- 
ficiently near to pour a terrible broadside into the already 
disabled Redoubtable,” while the French sailors from the 
second vessel, cheered by the timely arrival of their consort, 
now succeeded in boarding their antagonist, and trans- 
ferring the battle from their own deck to hers. The captain 
fell at his post, the majority of the officers had shared his 
fate. Still the remnant fought on like heroes, still they 
refused to give up the ship. 

Exposed to a double fire, to which she was unable to 
reply, riddled with balls, masts and yards shattered, canvas 
and cordage rent and torn, and every effort to plug the 
shot-holes, through which the water was now pouring, being 
useless, further resistance must be vain. The “ Redoubta- 
ble ” was not only sinking, but, as her crew soon discovered, 
on fire also. In such a condition it was useless for the 
bravest to prolong the fight, even had they not been^con- 
tending against six times their number. The captain of 
the third French ship, who was a humane man, and filled 
with admiration at the intrepidity of the foe, at last induced 
the little band to surrender and to quit their ship. 

The first French vessel had sunk soon after the second 
had come up. Fler crew had taken to the boats, and 
finally been received on board the. third vessel, to which 
the prisoners and wounded from the Redoubtable ” were 
now transferred. The second Frenchman was utterly dis- 
abled, and it was feared that she would share the fate of 
her first consort, so well and bravely had the heroic gun- 
ners of the ‘‘ Redoubtable ” done their duty. 


' 192 The Watc/iers on the Longs hips, 

Philip had stood valiant to the last, but he had not 
escaped unhurt. He was severely wounded in the arm, 
and, worn out by exhaustion and loss of blood, was borne 
fainting to the cock-pit of the French ship. 


Prisoners — Tom's Story. 


193 


CHAPTER XV. 

PRISONERS tom’s STORY. 

“ Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, 

Her rudder gone, her mainmast o’er the side ; 

Her scuppers from the waves’ clutch staggering free 
Trailed threads of priceless crimson through the tide : 

Sails, spars, and shrouds with hostile cannon torn. 

We lay awaiting morn.” 

J. R. Lowell. 

Half-an-hour after the conflict had ceased, the gallant 
‘‘ Redoubtable,’’ a mass of flames and smoke, sank beneath 
the clear blue waters of that tranquil sea, taking with her 
the remains of many heroes who had fallen in the service 
of their king and country. 

Every effort, meanwhile, was made to save the injured 
French ship, but though all hands were sent to the pumps, 
it was at last found necessary to abandon her, and the cap- 
tain, officers, and crew, together with a large number of 
wounded men, had to take refuge on board her companion. 

The English might well claim the victory, for out of 
three antagonists they had sunk two, and only yielded at 
the last moment, when weakened and disabled, to superior 
numbers. 

The French vessel was fearfully overcrowded, .and as 
English cruisers might anywhere be met with in those seas, 
it was necessary that she should without delay make for a 
friendly port, or join a large French squadron known to be 
about in those waters. 


194 Watchers on the Longships. 

AVhen Philip revived he found himself in almost com- 
plete darkness. On raising himself upon his elbow, his eye 
fell upon a sad scene. The wounded men, French and 
English, lay huddled close together beside him in the cock- 
pit of the French vessel. Groans and sighs, too, fell upon 
his ear. As his eye got more accustomed to the light of 
the one dim lantern, he recognized two or three comrades, 
but most of tbe men near him seemed to be French. Tor- 
tured with thirst, and suffering acute pain from his wound, 
he soon sank back again exhausted. But the events of the 
day passed vividly before his mind. How terrible were 
the scenes of carnage which he had witnessed, how many 
brave comrades had he seen hewn down in all the strength 
of their manhood ! He thought, too, of the good Forster, 
how nobly he had met his death, how ready he seemed 
to answer his master’s call, and — of his enemy, of him who 
had persecuted and unjustly condemned him to a harsh 
and cruel punishment — he, too, had died a brave man’s 
death. Oh ! that Forster’s solemn words might at the last 
moment have 'moved him to make his peace with God. 
And then he thought of himself — again had God preserved 
his life and guarded his head in the day of battle, again 
had He been his ‘‘ refuge and strength — a very present help 
in trouble ; ” he was a prisoner, indeed ; he was wounded, 
suffering, and among strangers and foes; but with life 
there was hope that he might once more, by God’s gracious 
providence, be restored to his country and to his home. Fie 
closed his eyes, but he was in too much pain to be able to 
sleep. Hearing steps soon after, and looking up, he saw 
two men moving about among the wounded. One of them 
he recognized as the surgeon of the Redoubtable.” In 
the darkness he could not quite make out the other, till 
the doctor approaching to examine his wound, he perceived 
that his attendant was no other than Tom Marriott, poor 


Prisoners — Torn s Story. 


195 


Forster’s great friend. A thrill of joy passed through 
Philip’s heart ; here was, indeed, a new instance of God’s 
mercy towards him. His arm was dressed and bound up, 
and on the surgeon leaving him to attend to another patient, 
Philip pulled Marriott by the sleeve. “ Tom,” he said, 

don’t you know me ? ” The man bent down and looked 
into Philip’s face. What, is it you, my lad } thank God, 
you are alive ; I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. But 
can you tell me anything of my friend Bill. I fear he’s 
gone. I’ve seen nothing of him.” 

He is gone, Tom,” said Philip ; I was by his side 
when he fell, and I heard his last words, and received a 
message from him for you, Tom, as well as these books 
which I have got in my pocket, but I am too helpless to 
get them out now.” 

Ah ! he’s gone is he, then ; the best friend I ever had in 

the world. I feared it was so ” Tom could say no 

more, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

‘‘Come on,” called the surgeon in a harsh tone ; “what 
are you dawdling about there for ? I’ve seen to that chap, 
and want you here.” 

“ I mustn’t stay, Philip, you see,” said Tom, as he tried 
to stop his tears ; “ I’ll hear more of poor Bill’s last hours 
another time — there’s no one but me fit to help the 
surgeon.” 

The vessel was much overcrowded, and the little wind 
there was generally contrary. She made, therefore, but 
slow progress. Martinique was their destination ; here the 
captain hoped to get rid of his prisoners, as well as of the 
officers and crew belonging to the other French ships. 

The English prisoners were few in number compared 
with their captors, and as most of them were wounded, 
there was no danger of their showing insubordination 
or making any attempt to escape. The captain, therefore, 


196 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

who was a generous man and honored bravery, even in 
an enemy, allowed them a great deal of liberty, permitting 
those who were able to leave the cockpit, and enjoy the 
fresh air on deck. Philip was one of the first to profit by 
this privilege. He had not been long on deck when he 
was joined by Marriott, who, sitting down beside him, 
remarked, “ Now, Philip, my duties with the surgeon are 
over for the next few hours, and I can have a long chat 
with you, and hear all about poor Bilks death ; but you 
are looking pale, my lad, are you still suffering much ? ” 

I shall be better now Fm able to get some fresh air, I 
hope, ’’ returned the lad ; “ that stifling cockpit alone’s 
enough to kill a man, Fm not nearly in so much pain as I 
was. It will do me a great deal of good to have a talk with 
you, Tom.” 

“ It’s what I’ve been looking forward to ever since I saw 
you that morning when I was going found with the 
surgeon — Ah ! that was a shock when you told me about 
poor Bill — though I’d feared the worst ever since the 
battle, because I couldn’t find him anywhere.” 

Philip now related to Tom Marriott very minutely all the 
particulars of Forster’s death ; he told him, too, how Lieu- 
tenant Bayley had been cut down at the same time ; then 
he delivered to Tom the well-worn Bible and hymn-book, 
which at his friend’s request he had taken from his pocket 
after his death. 

“Well, he’s happy now,” said Tom, “God grant that we 
may both meet him some day above — and Lieutenant 
Bayley gone, too, poor man, Fm sorry for him, indeed, 
thougl^I know he bore me no good will, nor you either, 
PhilipX 

“ Had you known Forster long ” asked Philip. 

“ We’ve been a couple of years in the ‘ Redoubtable ’ 
together, and a blessed time it’s been for me, Philip.” 


Tom's Story, 


197 


“ Did you know him before you went on board of her, 
Tom ? 

“ Well, if you like, Fll tell you my story, and how we 
became acquainted/’ 

‘‘Yes, do, Tom, then I’ll tell you mine if you care to 
hear it.” 

“ I’m sure I shall, Philip, but now for mine. I belong 
to Devonshire ” 

“ And I to Cornwall,” interrupted Philip. 

“You’re Cornish, are you? then we both came from the 
West — well, I was born at Brixham. I dare say you’ve 
heard of that town, Philip, for our trawlers are to be found 
in every port of England, and abroad, too — when there’s 
peace. Every man there is a fisherman, we’re a hardy lot, 
there’s no doubt of it, too much used to danger, too often 
out in storms to know^what fear means, but we’re a rough 
set, too. There’s hardly any religion amongst us. When 
the Methodists first came to preach in the town they were 
soon driven out of it by having stones and rubbish thrown 
at them, — they couldn’t make much of us, however they 
persevered, and there was one or two who joined them, and 
stuck to them, too, through thick and thin, and one of them 
was my friend Bill Forster ; but \ye weren’t friends at the 
time I’m now speaking of. - Bill, poor fellow, was much 
older than I am, twelve or fifteen years I should think, and 
when he joined the Methodists I was only a boy, and one 
of the worst and wildest lads in Brixham, and that’s saying 
a good deal. I was up to all sorts of mischief and wicked- 
n-ess. The smugglers, of whom there are a great many in 
those parts, always used to get me to help them either to 
watch the coast-guard and give them a signal if they were 
coming, or to look after their goods while they went to fetch 
more. But I couldn’t always be in Brixham ; I had to go 
out trawling like the rest, sometimes in my father’s boat. 


198 


The Watchers on the Longships, 


sometimes in that of another man who was looked upon as 
about the worst character in the place. One Saturday 
afternoon when we returned to the harbor, after having 
been out for a week’s cruise, we heard a piece of news 
which only amused me, but made some of my comrades sad 
and others angry. The press-gang had been at Brixham 
the day before, and carried off eight of our fellows. Among 
them was the son of our captain, and wasn’t he in a fury 
about it ? two or three of the men were married, and their 
wives were left unprovided for ; 1 couldn’t help giving a 
chuckle of delight when I heard that Bill Forster was 
among the young men who had been pressed. He used to 
rebuke me, kindly enough always, for my wild ways. Only 
the Sunday before, as he was going to church with this 
very Bible in his hand, he had stopped me in the street and 
asked me to go with him; ^Tom,’ li^ said, ‘there’s another 
world after this, I wish you’d think a little more about it.’ 
I turned away from him with an oath, but all the week I 
couldn’t get the words out of my head, and now that I heard 
he was gone, I thought, well I sha’n’t be bothered with him 
any more. He left an old mother at Brixham, who was 
quite dependent upon him, and when she heard he had 
been pressed for a sailor, carried off' without being allowed 
even to say farewell to her, she took on so, poor soul, and 
fretted so about her William, that though kind neighbors, 
and especially the so-called Methodists, took care that she 
should want for nothing, she pined away, and in a little 
more than a year she was carried to the' churchyard. 

“ I still went on in my bad ways, and the older I grew the 
more wicked I became. Three years after Bill had been 
carried off, when I was rather over twenty, as seamen were 
very scarce, we had many visits from press-gangs. I so far 
had managed to escape, for I wasn’t much at home. 
But one Sunday I was caught. Late in the evening I was 


Toni s Story. 


199 


with a lot of other fellows as desperate as myself in the 
public-house ; we were, the most of us, the worse for liquor, 
when we heard a great noise outside, the door was burst 
open, and in rushed the fiercest set of ruffians I had ever 
seen ; they were armed with cutlasses and pistols, and far 
outnumbered us. It was vain to resist, we were all of us 
gagged and bound, and carried off to their boats, lying 
between the town and Berry Head ; they soon took us on 
board their corvette at anchor in Torbay. I didn’t much 
care about parting from my relations, for I had very little 
feeling for any one except myself, but I regretted my free, 
wild life, how I should no more be my own master, and 
must submit to discipline ; and I knew well enough how 
severe that was on board his majesty’s fleet. I tried to 
escape and swim ashore, but I was only captured again, 
flogged and put into irons, and I saw that I must give 
in, but I did so with desperate ill-will. We were all taken 
to Plymouth, where we were distributed among different 
ships of the navy. I was sent on board the ‘ Impregnable.’ 
We sailed at once to the Mediterranean. 

“ At first I was surly with my messmates, and not over 
civil to the officers. I often narrowly escaped flogging, 
but being strong and active, and never having the slightest 
fear, I won a certain amount of popularity, which, after I 
became more accustomed to life on board a man-of-war, 
increased. I was the first in every hazardous enterprise, 
in every wild prank, whether at sea or on shore. In 
swearing, drinking, and other vices none surpassed me. 
But I seldom got into trouble ; my impudence and daring 
helped me out of many a scrape. I saw a good deal of 
active service, was in several battles, and once was slightly 
wounded. For more than two years I served in the 
‘Impregnable.’ We then returned to Plymouth to refit, 
and shortly after I was transferred to the ‘ Redoubtable ; ’ 


200 


The Watchers on the Longships, 


here I fell in with my old acquaintance, Forster. To me 
it was anything but a pleasant meeting, for the words which 
he last said to me at Brixham at once came back to my 
mind ; he, however, was hearty and cordial ; he said nothing 
to offend me, but I learned from the crew that he was what 
is called a regular IVIethodist, and that, though mocked at 
and persecuted in every way on account of his religion, 
he still continued the same — never swore nor drank, and 
was not afraid of saying a word of warning to those who 
persisted in leading an evil life. But with all this, he was 
so much respected by his superiors for his bravery and 
consistent conduct that in time he was promoted to be a 
petty officer. I took precious good care to avoid him as 
much as possible, and we weren’t thrown very much 
together ; when we did meet, I defied him by using viler 
language and worse oaths than ever, loud enough for him 
to hear. He looked sad, but said nothing. Once or twice, 
indeed, my conscience smote me, and I bethought me, why 
should I annoy a man who had never done me any 
harm ? 

“Well, we cruised about, now to the Baltic, now to the 
Mediterranean ; once or twice we had smart encounters 
with French ships, and took several prizes. Then we 
sailed along the coast of Africa, and here an adventure 
occurred which had a very important influence on my 
future life. We were short of water; a party was sent on 
shore in the cutter to explore, and if possible obtain some. 
Forster was the head of the expedition, and I was told off 
among the number. We landed all right, seeing no trace 
of hum^ beings anywhere. Through tangled brushwood 
we penetrated some way into the interior, where we at 
last discovered a stream of excellent water, with which we 
filled our barrels ; our object being now accomplished we 
retraced our steps to the shore. When from a height we 


had to climb we came in sight of the coast, we perceived 
that our boat was waiting for us at some distance from the 
shore, and was no longer in the creek, where we had left 
her. We did not understand the meaning of this till we 
looked again and saw the shore black with savages, who 
evidently had come down during our absence and tried to 
capture our boat. Thus our retreat was intercepted, and to 
regain our boat we must cut otir way through this crowd of 
natives. We halted to take counsel. Some thought that 
if we waited the natives would disperse ; others that more 
would probably arrive, and that the sooner we fought our 
way to the coast the better. We signalled to the two men 
we had left in the boat that we were coming. Meanwhile 
our danger had been observed by our mates on board the 
frigate, and we perceived two boats making towards the 
shore. Forster put himself at our head. ‘ Come on, my 
men,’ he said ; ‘ we shall have sharp work enough. May 
God protect us, and bring us safe through ? ’ Fortunately, 
we had our muskets with us, so, when near enough, we fired 
a volley at the enemy, which threw them into confusion for 
the moment, and enabled us, by the use of our cutlasses, to 
pass right through the crowd. Showers of arrows fell upon 
us ; happily they were not poisoned, but many of our men 
were wounded by them, and when we reached the shore, a 
desperate hand-to-hand fight with these savage niggers took 
place. Of course we were better armed, but they so ter- 
ribly outnumbered us that we couldn’t fail to suffer. Many 
of our party had succeeded in getting through the shallow 
water to the boats, still we had some way to wade up to 
them, and not all the men could swim. I was the last. I 
never had to fight so desperately in all my life. Strong 
and active as I was I felt that the savages were too many 
for me. I was bleeding in a hundred places from their 
arrows. The blows from their clubs fell like rain upon 


202 The Watchers on tJic Longships. 

me. I saw my companions plunging into the water, and 
getting into the boats which I could not reach. I felt sick 
and dizzy. At last I stumbled, and fell to the ground at 
the very feet of a savage bigger and stronger than the rest, 
who, with uplifted club, was about to dash my brains out, 
when suddenly Forster, who was just making for the boat, 
observed my danger, rushed back, and with a desperate 
blow from his strong arm felled my assailant to the earth. 

‘ Back, my lads,’ he cried ; ‘ here’s Tom half slaughtered by 
the savages. You won’t leave a brave comrade to perish, 
I’m sure.’ Immediately five or six of our fellows darted 
back, hewing down the natives on either side, and I, more 
dead than alive, was dragged by Forster and another man 
into the nearest boat. When we got on board the ‘ Re- ' ■ 
doubtable ’ again, and our wounds were examined by the 
surgeon, he thought my case was more serious than any ; 
but- next day three of my mates, whose wounds at first 
hadn’t been thought so bad as mine, died, but still I lived 
on. Forster, whenever he could get away from his duty, 
was at my side ; no woman could have nursed me more 
tenderly than he did. He put up with all my fretfulness 
and ill-temper, and did all he could to cheer me. At first 
I didn’t like him near me. He had saved my life, I knew. 

I couldn’t help feeling grateful to him for that ; but, on the 
other hand, I was under an obligation to him now, and that 
vexed me very much. 

“ My constitution was naturally so strong that I gradu- 
ally got better, and had time to reflect seriously on Forster’s 
conduct to me, and on mine to him. I began to feel really 
ashamelHbf myself. What motive but a good one could he 
have had in trying to induce me to forsake a manner of 
life which he held would lead me to ruin ? For this I h^d 
hated him, mocked him, and urged on others to do the ^ 
same. And now he had not only saved my life, but came ■’ ^ 


Tovi s Story, 


203 


down day after day into the stifling cockpit to nurse me, 
and try to cheer me, surly as I was, scarcely ever greeting 
him with a grateful word. Such thoughts as these were in 
my mind when one day Forster came up to me. 

‘ Tom,’ he said, ‘ you’re looking much better to-day. 
You’ll soon get over the mischief the savages did you. 
I’m sure I never thought I should see you able to move 
about again.’ 

“ ‘ Well, Bill,’ I said, in a much pleasanter tone than I 
had ever used to him before, ‘ there were no bones broken 
in my case, only cuts and bruises ; but it’s all thanks to 
you that I’m here now — indeed, that I’m alive at all. 
You not only saved my life when those black brutes were 
just about to put an end to me, but you’ve helped to 
keep me alive ever since by all your kindness, sitting with me, 
and giving me drink when I was , thirsty, and trying to 
keep up my spirits. I’ve been an ungrateful dog, I know. 
Bill, but I’ll try to make up to you for it now.’ 

I shall never forget the happy expression of surprise 
and pleasure which passed over Forster’s face, and shone 
forth from his eyes as I spoke these words. 

“ ‘ I’m sure I’ve been glad enough to help you, Tom, as 
much as I could in my poor way,’ he replied ; ‘ it’s what 
we ought all to do for each other in trouble, especially if 
we’re fellow-townsmen, as you and I are. You’d have done 
the same for me, I know.’ 

I was silent, for I didn’t feel at all certain that I should. 
Hitherto I had hated Forster, and now that my feelings 
with regard to him were beginning to change, I was 
ashamed of my former conduct. I was never so thoroughly 
base that I hadn’t generous impulses now and then, and I 
had done kind acts to my shipmates occasionally ; but I 
don’t think I would have gone out of my way to give Forster 
a helping hand. 


204 11^67 /t'//rrs on the LougsJiips. 

‘‘ ‘ YouVe had a bad time of it, Tom,^ Forster continued ; 

‘ but now you’re able to get about a little, you won’t find it 
so dull as it’s been for you down below.’ 

“ ‘ No,’ I said, ‘ and I hope I’ll not forget what you’ve done 
for me. Bill. I know I’ve behaved very badly to you ever 
since I came aboard this ship. You have meant me well, 
I am sure. I can’t understand why you should have given 
yourself so much trouble about me, trying to bring me to 
your way of thinking, and warning me of the consequences of 
my own bad ways. You never have got anything in return 
from me and the other chaps but scoffs and oaths and hard 
names. Why do you persevere so. Bill ? Why don’t you 
leave us alone, and keep your religion to yourself ? ’ 

“‘Just for the same reason, Tom,’ he replied, ‘that I 
wouldn’t leave you to be beaten to death by the savages. 
I can’t see you or others of my shipmates wounded by sin 
and enslaved by the devil without putting out a helping 
hand to rescue them. I know your evil courses and bad 
ways will lead you to ruin at last, and because I know this, 
I feel I should be a coward if I didn’t do my best to try 
and save you. The scoffs and sneers and surly answers I 
get in reply may make me sad, but they do me no harm. 
God has had mercy on me. He has given His Son to die 
for me, and should not I, in return for His love, have pity 
on my brethren, and do all I can to persuade them to 
accept that great salvation so freely offered to all ? ’ 

“ I was much struck by Forster’s words. I had not looked 
at the matter in that light before. ‘ Now, I see that you 
did it all for a good motive. Bill,’ I replied ; ‘ and you acted 
so brave^ in that terrible skirmish with the savages that 
I shall never say again, as most of us do, that Methodists 
are cowards and never make good sailors or soldiers.’ 

“ ‘ I know that’s what folks say,’ said Forster, with a 
smile, ‘but if yqu come to think of it, Tom, you will 


Tom's Story. 


205 


what a mistake it is. A man who strives with all his might 
to lead a godly life, who loves God and trusts in Him, who 
repents of his sins and knows that they are pardoned 
through the blood of his Saviour, must go into the battle 
with far more courage and confidence than one who has 
never thought of eternal things at all, and to whom, should 
he fall, the future life — what comes after death — is all 
dark and uncertain.^ 

‘‘ ‘‘Yes, Bill,’ I said, after a pause, ‘ I felt that when I 
was struggling there among the savages. Death stared me 
in the face ; I thought what will come after ? I knew^ I 
was not ready to die.’ 

“ ‘ God was very merciful to you, you see, Tom ; for He 
spared your life, and has given you time for repentance and 
amendment. Profit by this warning, then, you may not 
have another. O Tom ! I have by His mercy been the 
means of saving your life, let me help you to save your 
soul ! ’ 

“ The tears ran down his cheeks, and I could not restrain 
mine. I was still very weak from the effects of my wounds, 
and was, therefore, more susceptible than I should have 
been under ordinary circumstances to Forster’s warnings 
and entreaties. Just at that moment he was called away, 
and it was some days before we had any talk alone again. 
I rapidly recovered, but, thank God, as I grew stronger I 
became more and more convinced that I had been leading 
a wicked life, and more determined to change it. Of course 
when my messmates perceived what an alteration there was 
in me, I had to endure mockery and persecution of every 
kind ; now and then, too, I was led into sin, passion over- 
came me, and I would break out into oaths and curses, to 
the no little delight of my ungodly comrades. I didn’t all 
of a sudden become as good as Forster — alas ! no, I shall 
never be like him — but he was always ready to comfort and 


2o6 


The Watchers on the Longships. 

encourage me. Sometimes, after I had fallen into grievous 
sin, I would despair altogether, then Forster would talk with 
me, and read to me out of his Bible and hymn-book, and 
pray with me, too, if we could get a chance, down below 
somewhere, when no one was near, and so by the help of 
God’s Spirit I gradually began to love my Saviour and to 
lead a more Christian life. This happened more than two 
years ago ; ever since Forster and I have been firm friends ; 
we’ve stuck to each other through thick and thin, and now 
he’s gone, and our ship’s gone, too, and my future is dark 
enough. Ah, my heart sinks within me, when I think how 
sad and lonely I shall be without my friend ! ” 

Tom’s voice had often been very husky as he told his 
story, but at the close the tears started to his eyes. Philip, 
too, was deeply moved as he listened to Tom’s simple tale. 
When he could speak, he said — 

“ Well, Tom, I thank you very much for telling me your 
history; we have, indeed, both suffered a great loss in 
Forster, but how thankful I am that I was with him when 
he fell, and able to receive his last message to you. Ah, 
Tom, we mustn’t grieve for him, he’s happy now, he is with 
the Master he so well and nobly served. God grant that 
our last end m.ay be like his.” 

“Amen,” said Tom, earnestly; “and here are his books 
he valued so, and out of which he used to read to me, and 
I, alas ! can’t read a word.” 

“Can’t you, indeed, Tom?” said Philip ; “but I can, 
so I’ll read to you whenever w^e get a chance, as Forster 
asked me to do.” 

“Just^j;iow you could often manage it; we shan’t be 
molested much here ; the French can’t understand us, and 
our few messmates are not likely to interfere with us. But 
now, Philip, I want to hear your story.” 

“ So you shall, Tom,” said Philip, and he began to relate 


Tom^s Story. 


207 


his whole history, which greatly interested his companion. 

^^And so you were pressed, too ! he said, at the end. 
“What a wonderful good parson that must be down your 
way ! 

“Ah, that he is,^’ said Philip; “this is the Testament he 
gave me that Sunday when I was dragged away from my 
home. God grant that I may see him one day again. It’s 
he that taught me the right way, he and my good mother 
that’s gone. He’s such a brave gentleman, too, he does 
not care for any man, and he’s enough to put up with from 
our chaps at Sennen.” 

“ Pity those who mock him ain’t like him, I’m sure ! ” 
said Tom. 

Their conversation was now interrupted by the “ Re- 
doubtable’s” surgeon, who called Tom to help him to 
attend to the wounded below. But he and Philip were 
often together afterwards. The latter was able to read to 
Tom out of his friend’s Bible and hymn-book. They had 
plenty of leisure time, and were rarely interfered with. 
Philip’s arm rapidly healed. His heart was full of gratitude 
to God, who had not only saved his life in the terrible 
battle, but who had also granted him a companion of like 
mind with himself, so that they were able mutually to cheer 
and encourage each other in leading a godly life. 

Contrary winds and calms continued to impede the 
French ship, so that it was not till ten days after the battle 
that she anchored in the roads of Martinique. Here the 
prisoners were landed, and here we must leave Philip and 
his friend for the present and return to Cornwall. 


208 


The Watchers on the Longships. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE LIGHT BURNS AGAIN. 

“ Said one — she was the elder child, * 

And older yet in all her ways, 

She was so motherly and mild, 

So meekly wise beyond her days — 

‘ O’er sea or land I’ll never roam 
While father want^ his maid at home.’ ” 

— Rev. S. J. Stone. 

Arthur Pendrean was still indefatigable in his exer- 
tions to find a lighthouse-keeper. But hitherto no success 
had crowned his efforts, for a month all had been darkness ; 
the lighthouse, indeed, stood firm and immovable as the 
rock on which it was built, but so long as no friendly light 
shed its warning rays over the sea around it was practi- 
cally useless. There had been much stormy weather and 
several wrecks. The Sennen men had profited by them ; 
one vessel, it was said, had been lured by them on to the 
rocks by the false lights they had displayed along the 
shore. All hands had perished, but much plunder had 
been washed on shore. For the next few days drunkenness 
and riot reigned at the Cove and in the village, for it was 
alway-^he gold from the wreck which paid for the cursed 
abuse of drink. 

Owen frequently had implored the parson to allow him 
to go and live in the lighthouse alone. But in this Arthur 
remained inflexible. Jordan’s example was always before 


The Light Burns Again. 


209 


his eyes. A few days after the storm which had caused so 
much mischief, Arthur called at Tresilian^s cottage ; he had 
gone out fishing, but Mary was there to welcome the parson. 
He sat down by the fireside and talked kindly to her, ask- 
ing her about her father, if he was in better spirits now, 
and if he had made much by fishing lately. 

‘‘Oh, sir,’’ she said, “father does take on so about the 
lighthouse, he scarcely talks of anything else. He wants 
to go and live there all alone, and keep the lamps burning 
to prevent there being wrecks. After that shipwreck last 
week, when so many poor fellows were drowned, father did 
mope terribly ; he said he must go ; if he had only been 
there then they might all have been saved.” 

“Yes, I know, Mary, he is willing and anxious to sac- 
rifice himself, and go and live in that desolate rock, but I 
will never consent to him or any one else going there alone. 
I’ve been there myself, and I know what it is,” said Arthur. 

“ But, sir, why should he go alone ? ” said Mary, decid- 
edly. “ Why can’t I go with him ? I’m not afraid to live 
in a lighthouse, or any where else, if my father’s with me. I 
hope you won’t let him go alone, sir, for it would break 
my heart to be separated from him ; but why we shouldn’t 
live together in the lighthouse, and be quite happy there, I 
can’t see.” 

“ I fear it could never be, Mary,” said the parson. “ A 
lighthouse is not a place for a child like you ; days, weeks 
would pass away without your being able to go on shore and 
get fresh provisions. You’d have to live on poor fare there, 
Mary ; and suppose you or your father should be unwell, 
what help could you get ? to say nothing of the fearful 
noise there always is there, enough to frighten you out of 
your wits. You know the story of poor Jordan, Mary.” 

“ Oh, sir, I should never be frightened if my father was 
>vith me ; and as to the noise, it’s only the sea roaring un- 


210 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

derneath the rock. Jordan was afraid because he didn’t 
know what it was ; he thought it was ghosts, but you have 
taught me not to be afraid of such things, so it wouldn’t 
matter to me.” 

“Ah, Mary, you little know what life in a lighthouse is 
like — now if your brother Philip were at home it would 
be a different thing, he might well go and live out there 
with your father.” 

“ Poor, dear Phil,” said Mary, with a sigh, “ I wonder if 
we shall ever see or hear anything of him again. What a 
long time it seems since he was so cruelly dragged away 
from us. 

“I don’t despair, Mary. I never forget him in my 
prayers — neither do you, I am sure. I have not seen his 
name in any list of the killed. God, I know, is watching 
over him wherever he is, and I hope some day to welcome 
him home safe and well.” 

“I wish father thought so, sir, he looks upon him as 
quite lost to us forever.” 

Just at that moment Tresilian entered the cottage. He 
looked worn and sad, but he warmly greeted the clergy- 
man, his face brightening when he recognized him. 

“ I am very glad to see you, sir,” he said ; “ I want to 
talk to you about the lighthouse again. With all the mis- 
chief that has been going on the last few weeks, surely 
you’ll consent now and let me go, sir, won’t you ? 

“ It’s a difficult question, Owen, and very hard to decide 
upon. I have, indeed, felt keenly the loss of life which has 
occurred latterly, which might have been avoided had we. 
only h^, a light on the Longships ; but I can’t send you 
there alone, I feel it would not be right.” 

“But, sir,” said Owen, eagerly, “isn’t it better that one 
man should expose himself to a slight risk to save hun- 
dreds from perishing ? I’m not a bit afraid to go to the ' 


The Light Burns Again. 


21 I 


lighthouse alone, as IVe often told you, and in time IVe 
no doubt you’ll find some one to keep me company.” 

‘‘ If you go I shall go with you, father,” said Mary. 

Won’t that be better, sir, than that he should go there 
all alone ? ” 

Nonsense, child,” said Owen, ‘‘that can never be. If 
I go the parson will find some comfortable berth for 
you.” 

“ Though it’s not the place for a child like her, Owen, 
I’d rather she went with you than that you went alone,” 
said Arthur, thoughtfully. 

“ There, father, I knew the parson would say so ; we’ll 
both go and live in the lighthouse, then. I’ll help you to 
light the lamps, and there’ll be no wrecks after that, I’m 
sure.” ^ 

“ It’s all very well for you to talk, child, but you know 
nothing about life in a lighthouse ; you’d soon have enough 
of it, I’m sure,” sard Owen. 

“Only let me try, father,” implored Mary, “just for a 
month, and then if all doesn’t go well, and you don’t like 
to have me. I’ll promise you I’ll come back and go where- 
ever the parson likes to send me, though it will break my 
heart, I know.” 

“You’re a dear, good child, Mary,” said Owen as he 
kissed her affectionately, “ and I’m sure I can’t bear the 
thought of being separated from you ; but if it’s my duty 
to go to the lighthouse, go I must, and I don’t like the 
idea of taking you there for ever so short a time.” 

• “Well, Owen,” said Arthur, “ I would not myself pro- 
pose that Mary should go and live in the lighthouse. I 
see much to object to in her plan ; but, on the other hand, 
it is far better that she should go with you than that you 
should go alone, and if nothing else can be done, and you 
consent, I would not forbid her trying it for a month,” 


212 The Watchers on the Longships, 

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Mary, jumping up 
from her seat. “ Now, father, you’ll let me go with you,” 
and she put her arms coaxingly round his neck. 

“ I don’t like it at all, Mary ; no good’ll come of it, 1 * 
fear. I must think the matter over till to-morrow, before I 
make up my mind altogether.” 

“Very well, Owen,” said the clergyman, “I’ll look in 
again to-morrow and hear the results of your considera- 
tion. I fear there’s no chance of my finding any one else 
to join you, I have been trying long enough now without 
any success.” 

“Ah, I wish you could, sir,” said Owen, “because that 
would settle the matter.” 

The clergyman now took leave of Tresilian and his 
daughter. As he rode home he meditated on Mary’s plan. 
That she should be willing to go proved what a brave and 
‘affectionate heart the little maiden possessed. But what 
a hard, dreary life it would be for a child of such tender 
age. He feared lest her health might suffer from the ex- 
treme cold, as well as from the constant storms which 
shook the lighthouse. However, as nothing else could be 
done, and it was important that the light should again 
shine forth from the Longships, he was willing to consent 
that the trial should be made if Owen saw his way to 
agree to it. 

That evening, as they sat by the fireside, Owen mending 
his nets, and Mary reading to him out of the big Family 
Bible, or from the “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” which the parson 
had lately given her, both father and daughter were think- 
ing about the lighthouse. A hard struggle was going on 
in the mind of the former, a struggle between love and 
duty. Mary was his greatest, his only treasure on earth. 
His wife had been borne to the silent grave ; his son, of 
whom he had been so proud, had been ruthlessly torn 


The Light Bums Again. 


213 


from him, and he could not endure the thought of expos- 
ing his beloved daughter to any peril. To shield her from 
danger, to do all to make her happy, was the great object of 
his life, and to take her to live in that dreadful lighthouse, 
on that lonely storm-beaten rock, out of the reach of help, 
in case of need, from any human being, was exposing her 
to terrible risks, from which he instinctively shrank. On 
the other hand, he was not allowed to go there alone, no 
one else could be found to accompany him ; so long, too, 
as the lamps were unlighted gallant ships would continue 
to be dashed on the merciless rocks and brave lives to be 
sacrificed, whilst the wicked and unprincipled wreckers 
who dwelt round the coast would successfully ply their evil 
trade. Was it not, then, his duty to go Would not God 
watch over and protect his little daughter on the lonely 
rock out yonder as He had done in their snug little cottage 
on shore ? Plainly there was no other way out of the dif- 
ficulty. It was the stormiest and darkest period of the 
year — the middle of December — each day’s delay might 
involve a sacrifice of life and property. 

Mary had finished reading, and had taken up her needle- 
work, when Owen, silently gazing into the fire, remarked, 
‘‘Are you still bent on going to the lighthouse, Mary ? ” 

“Yes, father,” she replied cheerfully; “you’ll let me, 
won’t you ? ” 

“Well, child, I’ve been thinking the matter over ever 
since the parson was here, 'and though I don’t like the 
thought of it, yet as nothing else can be done just now it 
seems as if it must be ; just for a time, Mary — remember, 
only for a time — till we find some one else, some man to 
keep me company.” 

“ Oh, there’s a good father ! ” cried Mary delighted ; “I 
knew you’d let me go at last, and we’ll be so happy to- 
gether, and save ever so many vessels from being ship- 


2J4 Watchers a a the Longs hips, 

wrecked,” and she threw her arms round her father’s 
neck. 

‘‘Ah, Mary, it won’t be the pleasant life you think,” 
said her father, sadly; “you’ll repent it ere long, I know.” 

“Never fear that, father; if you’re with me 1 shan’t be 
afraid, and we’ll take the Bible out there and the ‘ Pilgrim’s 
Progress.’ But what shall we do on Sunday } I never 
thought of that — we shall never be able to go to church 
all the time we’re out there.” 

“There, Mary, you see you’ve already found out one 
happiness you must give up if you go ; it’ll not be long 
before you find a great many more,” said Owen. 

“ Well, it’s very sad, certainly, that we can’t go to 
church,” replied Mary ; “ but God will be with us, all the 
same, out on the rock. We must read the prayers together 
every Sunday, I suppose, and the lessons and psalms, and 
make the best of it we can.” 

And thus Owen and his daughter talked the project over. 
Now that the father had reluctantly given his consent, 
he was anxious that no time should be lost in taking up 
their abode in the lighthouse. Next morning Arthur 
called at the cottage. Owen told him his resolve, but 
-he could not conceal from the parson how much he 
dreaded the risk to which he feared he was exposing his 
child. 

“ I can well enter into your anxieties, my good Owen,” 
said Arthur ; “ in fact, I share them all, but I trust in our 
gracious Father above; it is clearly His will that you both 
should go ; I know He will protect you, and that He will be 
to you both a refuge from the storm and a covert from the 
tempest. You and Mary will sadly miss the church privi- 
leges you have had on shore, our Sunday services in 
church, our rmeetings now and then for reading God’s 
Word, and prayer, but you’ll have your Bible and Prayer 


The Light Bicrns Agam, 215 

book with you, and you can keep Sunday in the lighthouse, 
and think of us in church, remembering you in our prayers, 
and perhaps some day, when it is quite calm, I may be able 
to come out and pay you a visit/’ 

“Ah! that would be nice, sir,” said Mary; “how glad 
we shall be to see you.” 

“ I’m thinking, sir, the sooner we go the better,” said 
Owen ; “ the weather is unusually calm, for the time of 
year, and we can well be ready to leave the day after to- 
morrow. It’ll be hard parting from the old home. And 
what’s to be done with our cottage, sir ? ” 

“ It shall be well taken care of till you come back again, 
Owen, for I hope ere long you’ll be relieved from your 
post, and that I may get some one else to fill it. I am 
looking out now for a berth for a poor widow ; so I’ll put 
her into your cottage to take care of it while you’re at the 
lighthouse.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Owen; “that’ll be one trouble off 
my mind ; but we shall have to take a good many things 
with us ; I want my Mary to be as comfortable as possible 
out there.” • ' * 

“All right, Owen,” replied Arthur; “we’ll see to that, 
and you must be well stocked with provisions, too, of all 
kinds, plenty of coals and wood to keep yourself warm ; of 
course, whenever we can, we’ll send you out fresh meat, 
and if you take flour with you, I suppose Mary can make 
bread if necessary.” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Mary; “ever since poor mother died. 
I’ve done that. I can cook, too, in the lighthouse, I hope 
as well as at our cottage.” 

“Hadn’t we better go out to-morrow, and take some of 
the stores, sir,” said Owen, “and overhaul the lighthouse 
to see that all’s right there ? ” 

“Yes,” said Arthur; “and I’ll go with you. I want to 


2i6 The Watchers on the Longships, 

see how the new work done to repair the damage caused 
by the gale, in which poor Jordan was caught, has stood ; 
you mustn’t go to live there until all is made as tight and 
comfortable as possible.” 

‘‘ Shall we start at eight o’clock to-morrow, sir ? the tide’ll 
suit very well then.” 

“Yes! I’ll be ready, Owen; you ask Abbott to go with 
us, and I’ll ride roun^ by the preventive station, and get a 
couple of men to join us.” 

“There’ll be a precious row among the men at the 
Cove when they hear the light is to burn again on the 
Longships, sir ; they’ve always boasted that you were dead 
beat, and that you’d never get any one to go out there 
again.” 

“Never mind, Owen, they can’t do us any harm; they’ll 
be much put out, doubtless, for since the light has ceased 
shining they have made a lot of money by their deeds of 
darkness.” 

The calm weather continued during the night, and early 
next morning two boats were launched ready to sail for the 
Longships. 

“ What are they up to now ? ” said Nichols to his nephew, 
as they strolled together down the beach and perceived 
Owen, Abbott, and the two preventive men getting the 
boats ready. . 

“Some mischief,” replied Bill; “for here comes the 
parson riding down to the shore.” 

“ They’ve never found anybody, surely, to go and live in 
that cursed lighthouse,” said Nichols. 

“ It looks like it,” replied his nephew ; “ where else 
could the parson be going ? ” 

“ That’s it, you may be sure,” said Ben Pollard, who came 
up at that moment ; “ the parson’s regularly got hold of 
that fool of a fellow, Abbott, and can twist him round his 


TJlc Light Btinis Again. 


217 


finger almost as easily as he does Tresilian. They’ve got 
stores of provisions in one of them boats, so you may be 
certain where they’re agoing to.” 

‘‘ Yes, Ben ; but who’s going to live there ? it would 
surely have got wind among us, somehow or other, if the 
parson had found any one to take Jordan’s place. It can’t 
be that Tresilian, surely.” 

‘‘ Not alone, John, certainly, for the parson vowed after 
that Jordan was so nearly made crazy that no one should 
ever live there alone, but it’s possible, he’s found some 
stupid chap to join Tresilian. Well, I wouldn’t be in his 
shoes.” 

‘‘ At any rate, it’s a bad lookout for us, Ben,” said 
Nichols ; “ the only comfort is, it can’t last long, the lamps’ll 
get put out as they were before.” 

Meanwhile, both the boats had pushed off from the 
shore ; they reached the rock and landed on it without any 
difficulty. Everything was found to be in repair — the 
cupola had not been in the least damaged by the recent 
gales, and no water seemed to have come in. The pro- 
visions and coals they had brought with them were safely 
deposited in the storeroom below the building. Owen 
could not help sighing as he glanced round the gloomy 
chamber in which his dear little daughter was to sojourn. 

‘‘ It does look dreary, Owen,” said Arthur ; I half 
repent that I gave way to the child’s fancy, but it shan’t be 
for long, I promise you ; I won’t rest till I find another 
lighthouse-keeper — at last I’m sure I must succeed.” 

“ I hope you will, sir,” ‘said Owen, ^‘for I feel it ain’t at 
all the place for my Mary ; but you’ll send some one to us 
in a day or two, I dare say, to see how we’re getting on, so 
that I may have a chance of sending the child ashore if 
need be.” 

Never fear that, Owen ; I shall be too anxious to 


21 8 The Watc/iers ou the Longships. 

hear of you both to lose any chance of communicating with 
you.’' 

The two boats reached Sennen Cove on their return early 
in the afternoon. Next morning it was settled that they 
should start for the lighthouse at the same hour, taking 
with them the remainder of the stores required, as well as 
some furniture from Owen’s cottage, to make the living room 
of the lighthouse look a little more comfortable and cheer- 
ful. The parson and the other men were then to return, 
leaving Tresili^i and his daughter in their new abode. 

• All the afternoon Mary and her father were busy making 
their preparations for an early departure next morning. 
Their cooking utensils, as well as a good supply of blankets 
and warm clothes, were put up, the large Family Bible, the 
Prayer-book, Hymn-book, and “ Pilgrim’s Progress ” not 
being forgotten by Mary, and a long discussion took place 
between her and her father as to whether the large tabby cat, 
who constantly sat purring before the fire, and added not a 
little to the comfortable look of the cottage, should be left 
behind, for Mrs. Beavis, the new tenant, to take care of, or 
should accompany them to the lighthouse. Mary, who was 
more anxious for the cat’s comfort than her own, suggested 
that she would prefer it to remain, for it would be impossible 
to provide her with milk, while it was most unlikely that any 
mice were to be had in the lighthouse. Owen, on the other 
hand, thought the animal would be an amusement to his 
daughter, so it was at last decided that puss, too, was to be 
of the party. 

The next morning was bright and frosty. Owen was 
early dawn on the beach, when the same party soon assem- 
bled as on the previous day; and very eagerly were- they 
watched by a group of Sennen men, among whom Nichols 
and Pollard were conspicuous. The riddle they knew would 
now be solved, and they would see who the new lighthouse- 


The Light Burns Again. 219 

keeper was. When they saw Mary lifted into one of the 
boats, while furniture and household goods were put into 
the other, they guessed at once that she was to be Owen^s 
sole companion on the lonely rock. 

Well,” said Pollard, I never should have thought it ; — 
the idea of sending that child to live out in a lighthouse ; — 
the parson must be hard up, indeed ! ” 

Well, this is a joke ! ” said Nichols with an oath ; I 
was right about Tresilian going there, you see ; oh, that’ll 
soon come to an end, — the girl’ll never stand it ; they’ll soon 
be back again, and all the better for us.” 

A burst of derisive laughter rose from the men when, after 
Arthur had jumped on board, the boats put off from the 
shore. 

“It doesn’t please them, you see, sir,” said Owen; “I . 
told you what a rage they’d be in ; from their way they 
evidently think that this experiment will be another failure, 
and that the lamps won’t burn for long in the light- 
house.” 

“ There’s no doubt that’s what they wish, Owen,” said 
Arthur ; “ let us hope their wishes will not be realized.” 

Mary greatly enjoyed the voyage. They safely reached 
the rock, when she, the cat, and all her little property were 
successfully landed. She followed the parson and her 
father up the narrow staircase which led to the apartment 
designed, for the present, to be her home. 

“Well, it is a queer place, father,” she said; “the walls 
look so bare and rough, and the room quite round, too ! 
How dark it is ; such a very small window ; we shall have 
to burn plenty of oil — shan’t we ? ” 

“Yes, it is a dark room, Mary, there’s no mistake,” said 
Arthur ; “ I’ve spent three or four days in it, so I know 
what it is ; you must try and make the best of it, however. 
Come now, we’ll go up and look at the lantern.” 


220 The Watchers on the Longships. 

They mounted into the cupola, where the parson showed 
Owen how the lamps were lighted and regulated. 

“ I like this place best,” said Mary ; “ I shall often come 
and sit up here — such a fine lookout over the sea, and 
there’s the Land’s End looking so close, and the cottages 
along the cliff.” 

‘‘In a storm you won’t find it such a pleasant place, 
child,” said her father. 

They returned to the room below, where the fire which 
they had lighted was now burning brightly, and making 
the place look more cheerful. 

“ I suppose you must be going so»on, sir,” said Owen to 
the parson. “You won’t forget us, I’m sure.” 

“No, that I won’t, Owen,” returned Arthur; “and, 
whatsoever betide, I am sure our gracious Father above, 
into whose holy and all-powerful keeping I have commit- 
ted you both, will never forget nor forsake you. Tempests 
may rage and seas swell around ; still he will ever be near 
to guard and watch over you. In the path of duty and 
self-denial which he made so plain before you, in the noble 
work of helping to save the lives of your fellow-men which 
you have so bravely chosen to perform, He will, in His 
own good time and way, give you a blessing. Has He not 
said, ‘ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least 
of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto me ? ’ ” 

“Well, I trust we shall do some good, sir,” said Owen, 
“ and so long as God gives us health and strength we 
mustn’t mind putting up with little discomforts, and feeling 
rather lonely. We’ll make the best of it ; won’t we, 
Maiy^” 

“Yes, father, that we will,” replied Mary, hopefully. 

Arthur now took his Bible out of his pocket, and they 
all sat round the fire while he read the 107th Psalm. Then 
they knelt down, and the clergjunan offered up a short 


The Light Burns Again. 


221 


prayer, in which he commended Owen and his daughter to 
the ever-watchful care of the Almighty. 

When they rose from their knees it was time for Arthur 
to go. Owen and his daughter accompanied him to the 
landing-place, where the other men were waiting in the 
bo^ts. Good-bye, Mary,^’ he said to her cheerfully. Til 
try and come over and see you again before long ; and mind 
you don’t let your father get into low spirits. Keep the 
lights burning, Owen,” he added, grasping his hand ; ‘‘ when 
we look at them we shall think, of you and Mary. God 
bless you both ! ” 

He jumped into the boat. The men pulled immediately 
olf from the rock. Owen and his daughter went up to the 
cupola and watched them till they turned the point, and 
were hid from their eyes. For the first time they seemed 
to realize how completely they were isolated from the world. 

They set busily to work, however, arranging their furni- 
ture and making the place as comfortable as possible. 
Puss was very restless and unhappy ; she did not easily 
adapt herself to her novel situation — even Mary’s caresses 
failing to make her feel at home. Then Owen had his 
lamps to trim and polish, while Mary prepared her father’s 
dinner, as she had been used to do at home. This she 
managed very cleverly, and at its conclusion Owen smoked 
his pipe by the fireside. 

When it grew dusk, Owen went up to light the lamps, 
accompanied by Mary. One by one they shone cheerfully 
forth, till all were kindled, and sent their bright rays across 
the gloomy waters. 

‘‘There, you see, Mary, they’re burning once more, 
thank God ! ” said Owen. “ I hope that nothing’ll occur 
to put them out again.” 

The sea was still calm, and father and daughter passed 
a happy evening in their new abode, 


222 The Watchers on the Longships, 

“ Ah ! there burns that cursed light again/’ said Nichols 
to Pollard and several others who had accompanied him 
to the Land’s End to see if the parson’s new lighthouse- 
keeper had really succeeded in performing his duties. 

“Yes! no mistake about it, John,” returned Pollard. 
“ Well, for the present, I suppose, business’ll be slack 
enough with us.” 

“It’s a bad job, indeed,” said a^iother man — “a poor 
lookout for us* this winter.” 

“ Trust me. I’ll be a match for ’em somehow or other,” 
said Nichols with an oath ; “ I’ve got an old grudge against 
that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that par- 
son, you all know what I think of him.” 

“ Well, John, there’s many a chap here’ll be glad enough 
. to help you,” said Pollard. 


Christmas. 


223 


CHAPTER XVIL 

CHRISTMAS. 

It came upon the midnight air, 

That glorious song of old, 

From angels bending near the earth 
To touch their harps of gold. 

^ Peace to the earth, good will to men. 

From Hehven’s all gracious King,’ 

The world in solemn stillness lay 
To hear the angels sing.” 

— E. H. Sears. 


The bells — the bells — the Christmas bells, 

How merrily they ring ! 

As if they felt the joy they tell 
To every human thing. 

The silvery tones o’er vale and hill 
Are swelling soft and clear. 

As wave on wave the tide of sound 
Fills the bright atmosphere.” 

— J. W. Brown. 

Regularly, every evening, did the lantern on the Long- 
ships send forth its friendly rays over the dark ocean. 

Arthur gazed at it with pleasure and thankfulness ; the 
evil men of Sennen, whose dishonest and cruel schemes it. 
arrested, beheld it with increasing hatred and disgust. 

Mary and her father, who both felt it dull and lonely at 
first, in about a week’s time began to get accustomed to 
their new life. The confinement, indeed, was irksome to 
both of them ; the only exercise they could get was running 
up and down the spiral staircase of the building, walking 


224 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

round the lantern, or pacing the very small platform at the 
base of the lighthouse, which latter exercise could only be 
done on a calm day and at low tide. 

Hitherto the weather had favored them. There had 
been no storms, though a fresh breeze now and then con- 
siderably ruffled the sea. But the surf was not too heavy 
to prevent communication with the shore. 

The Christmas festival was close at hand, and Arthur 
had not forgotten his two friends condemned to spend it 
on the solitary storm-beaten rock, far away from the church 
and home. On the fourth day after their exile they were 
visited by a boat row^ed by David Abbott and another man 
who was friendly with the parson. In this Arthur sent 
them fresh provisions, not forgetting a good Christmas 
dinner, with plenty of apples and oranges for Mary, as well 
as friendly messages and hearty good wishes to her and her 
father. 

Christmas Day dawned, the dreariest, coldest day they 
had as yet experienced in the lighthouse ; but Mary kept 
up a good blazing fire, which made even the bare walls of 
their chamber look cheerful, and the thoughtful parson had 
not forgotten to send some branches of holly and laurel, 
which Owen had hung over the fireplace and round the 
narrow window and door, so that the little room had quite 
a Christmas appearance. As the wind was blowing from 
the eastward, they heard the bells of St. Sennen Church 
ringing out merrily in honor of the birthday of Him who 
(^ame to the earth to save us from sin, and to reconcile us 
for ever to His Father, and to summon the villagers to 
join in praising Him for this His inestimable gift. 

Mary felt rather sorry that she could not be there when 
the sounds of the chimes first fell upon her ear. She remem- 
bered last Christmas Day when she and her father and Philip 
had all sat together in church on the bench just under the pul- 


Christmas. 


225 


pit, how beautifully the building was decorated with ever- 
green and holly, how heartily and sweetly the Christmas 
Hymn, Hark ! the herald angels sing,’’ had been sung, and 
what an interesting sermon the parson had preached on the 
story of the Babe of Bethlehem, told so simply, and yet in 
such thrilling language, that it was all quite fresh in her mind 
now, though it was a year ago since she had listened to it. 
But she tried to conquer her regretful longings ; her father 
was with her, so she felt she ought to be happy. She would 
read the service to him presently, the psalms and hymns 
that would be sung in church, both morning and afternoon, 
and the story of our Lord’s birth in St. Luke’s gospel. 

Though it grew gloomier and gloomier without, a snow- 
storm coming on so thickly that they could not see the 
land from the gallery round the cupola, yet in the room 
within looked bright and cheerful, and the blessed words 
they had read from the holy book filled their hearts with 
joyful thoughts and blessed hopes. 

“ I hope the parson will come and see us before long, 
father,” said Mary ; he said he would.” 

‘‘ I am sure he will, child, if the weather permits,” he 
replied, but it looks very dirty, indeed, just now. Though 
Mr. Arthur wasn’t able to come himself he hasn’t forgotten 
us. What a good dinner he sent us yesterday ; you cooked 
it, too, very well, Mary.” 

‘‘Yes, indeed, the dear, kind gentleman,” said Mary; 
“ whatever should we do without him ? Look at all the 
presents he has sent me — books and pictures and oranges 
and warm clothes for both of us; — everything he can 
think of to make us comfortable out here.” 

“Yes, Mary ; I never met a man with such a kind heart 
as Mr. Arthur ; and yet how brave and fearless he is ! I 
shall never forget his leaping on the rock that day when 
we put out to rescue Jordan, and then only to think of his 
being left alone here> with him for three days.” 


226 The Watchers on the Longships. 

Yes/’ said Mary; ‘‘and how he tried to drag poor Phil 
out of the hands of the press-gang ! ” 

“ Ah yes ! Philip, poor dear boy ! shall I ever see him 
again ? ” and Owen sank into that melancholy mood which 
always came over him when his son was mentioned. 

“ Yes, father, I hope we shall some day,” said Mary 
cheerfully. “ Mr. Arthur thinks so ; — bad news, he says, 
travels fast ; and if Philip had been drowned or killed in 
battle, he is sure we should have heard it.” 

“It maybe so, Mary,” said her father, sadly, “but I’m 
apt to look at the dark side. Ah ! how the wind is getting 
up. I must go and light the lamps.” 

The wind was howling, and the waves were beating 
against the walls of the lighthouse with greater violence 
than they had done since it had received its present tenants. 
When her father went up to light the lamps, and Mary was 
left alone, she could hardly help shuddering as the building 
rocked and vibrated as each fresh wave dashed against it. 
How dreadful, she thought, it must be to be quite alone in 
this lighthouse, as poor Jordan was. With her father, how- 
ever, she need fear nothing; when he came back, she re- 
marked, “ There will be a great gale to-night — won’t there, 
father ? ” 

“Yes, my child, there’s every appearance of it; there is a 
good deal of shipping about, too, which makes me glad that 
the lamps burn so clearly.” 

“ What a dreadful noise I hear every now and then from 
underneath the lighthouse, father ! ” 

“Yes, Mary, that’s beginning now ; it was these unearthly 
sounds which frightened poor Jordan so, and turned his 
hair white in one night.” 

“But there’s nothing really to be afraid of — is there, 
father?” 

“Nothing whatever, child; it’s only the air compressed 


Christmas. 


227 


in the caves under the rock ; but to any one who doesn’t 
know what it is, it sounds awful indeed.” 

And it’s getting louder and louder, father.” 

‘‘It’ll be worse, I expect, when the gale gets to its 
height.” 

Owen was right, for soon the noise was so loud that they 
could scarcely hear each other speak. Mary was obliged 
to give up reading aloud to her father, and study the “ Pil- 
grim’s Progress” to herself. When she went to bed, it 
was long before she could get to sleep. 

Owen, anxious about the lamps, and fearing lest the 
glass of the cupola might be broken by the violence of the 
waves, sat up all night on the watch. The gale increased 
in fury till morning, when it seemed somewhat to die 
away. 

On shore, Christmas had been kept with more solemnity 
and cheerfulness than usual. Arthur, during the previous 
week, had diligently visited his parishioners from house to 
house, urging them to come to church on Christmas Day. 
He had done his best to encourage those who were striving 
to turn over a new leaf, and had fearlessly rebuked those 
who still persisted in leading an ungodly life. He had 
found an opportunity, which he had long been seeking, for 
saying a few earnest words to Nichols and Pollard sepa- 
rately. Whatever might be the results, he felt that such 
was his duty ; some good, he knew, there must be in every 
man — some soft spot in the hardest heart. In none could 
the image of God, in which he was created, be entirely 
effaced. His interview with Nichols filled him, however, 
with despondency ; the kindest words he repaid with brutal 
insolence and mockery. It seemed impossible to make the 
least impression on him. After this rebuff, he had not 
much heart to encounter Ben Pollard ; nevertheless, he 
must pass his cottage, and he wanted to give some Christ- 


228 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

mas gifts to his poor, struggling wife and her young family; 
so if Ben were at home he must speak to him. He opened 
the door, and there he was, alone, his wife having gone into 
the village to buy provisions. Ben received the parson 
in a surly manner, but he was never quite so insolent as 
Nichols, especially when he was not in his company. 
When he found, too, that Arthur had come with presents 
for his wife and children, and that he was going to provide 
them with a dinner for Christmas Day, of which they sadly 
stood in need, he softened very much towards the parson. 
Arthur even ventured to remonstrate with him on his 
way of life, and tried to point out to him how much hap- 
pier he and his family would be if he would only work 
honestly and steadily, give up smuggling and wrecking, 
and cease from preferring the village ale-house to his own 
home. 

‘‘ It’s all very well for you to talk, sir,” said Ben, “ but it 
isn’t so easy for a man to change his way of life all of 
a sudden like, even were I disposed to, which I can’t say I 
am. I think you may mean well enough towards me, 
but there’s many who’ll never forgive you, sir, for taking 
the bread out of our mouths by building that ere light- 
house.” 

‘‘Your bread you could earn honestly, Ben,” said the 
parson, “ if you choose to go out fishing regularly, instead 
of idling about from morning to night. What the light- 
house deprives you of is ill-gotten gains, wrung from the 
sufferings, often the deaths, of innocent men, which you no 
sooner get than you spend in drink.” 

Ben was about to reply when his wife came in, to whom 
the parson addressed a few friendly words before leaving 
the cottage. 

Though Christmas Day dawned dull and gloomy, and the 
sky was overcast with dark clouds, never had the little 


Christmas, 


229 


church of St. Sennen looked so gay and cheerful, for, under 
the parson^s directions, it had been decorated with laurels, 
evergreens, and bright red holly berries ; the congregation, 
too, was much larger than was usual on Sundays, and the 
service was warm and hearty. The Psalms and the Christ- 
mas Hymn had been well practised during the week, and 
were therefore, sung with more spirit and correctness than 
generally was the case. The sermon, earnest and simple, 
as usual, was attentively listened to by the congregation. 
Arthur, on looking round from the pulpit, observed many 
faces that he had never seen in church before, and among 
them, to his astonishment, was that of Ben Pollard, sitting 
behind a pillar, and accompanied by his wife. He was 
greatly encouraged at this sight. As the wind howled 
round the little church, he did not forget his friends in the 
lighthouse, and offered up a silent prayer that they might 
be preserved from danger and cheered in their solitude. 

When service was over, many of the parishioners lingered 
in the churchyard to shake hands with the parson, and 
wish him a happy Christmas. Ben Pollard was not of this 
number ; he felt half ashamed of having been persuaded by 
his wife to go to church, and was thinking how he should 
get laughed at by his friend Nichols and several others if 
it ever reached their ears. 

There was no afternoon service, for the parson had to go 
to St. Levan to §ay Evensong, and there to preach a short 
sermon to the few poor folk who assembled in that damp, 
quaint little church. It had been a happy day to him, and 
he rode home filled with brighter hopes and more encour- 
aged in his work than he had ever felt before. Many of 
the men, whose utter insensibility to kindness he had so 
often deplored, seemed at all events softened towards him ; 
he might have to lament indifference, but rarely had to 
complain now of mockery and ridicule. He hoped that the 


230 The Watc/iers on the Longships, 

good seed which he had so diligently striven to sow was at 
last about to spring up and bear fruit. 

He passed a happy evening with his father ; but when 
he heard the wind howling round the old house, while the 
snow beat against the window panes, he thought of poor 
Owen and his little daughter out at the Longships. How 
gloomy must this Christmas evening appear to them ! 
Such weather, too, he feared, would for some time make it 
difficult to communicate with them. 

About nine o’clock he was informed that a young man, 
dressed like a sailor, was anxiously waiting to see him in 
the kitchen ; he had walked all the way from Plymouth, he 
said, and seemed much exhausted. 

Who could it be ? Arthur hastened down at once. A 
lad in sailor dress, drenched with snow and rain, his coun- 
tenance worn and haggard, stood before him. 

“ Well, my friend,” he said, “ you look cold and tired ; 
draw a chair to the fire ; you are probably hungry, too, you 
shall have something to eat. I don’t seem to know your 
face. Have I ever seen you before ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, dejectedly; “my name 
is Evans, Dick Evans. I was pressed for a sailor last 
spring along with Bob Harris and Philip Tresilian.” 

“Philip Tresilian! and do you know where he is?” 
asked the parson, eagerly. 

“No, sir. I’ve heard nothing of him since we parted. 
A few days after we were pressed, we were put on board 
different ships, he and Bob in the ‘ Royal Sovereign,’ and I 
in the ‘ Duke of Marlborough.’ ” 

“ And what has brought you back here now, Dick ? ” 
“Well, sir, I’ve had a hard time of it; I’ve been passed 
from one ship to another, and in the last one I was in, a 
corvette, we were shipwrecked on the coast of South 
America.” 


Christmas. 


231 


How, then, liave you come here, Dick ? ’’ 

After spending several weeks on a barren island, I and 
three of my messmates were picked up by an English mer- 
chant vessel, in which we worked our passage home, and 
were landed last Tuesday at Plymouth, sir/’ 

“Well, Dick, I’m glad to see you back after so many 
dangers and adventures ; but what made you come to see 
me first before going to your old home at Sennen ? ” 

“ Why, sir, I wanted, the first thing I did when I came 
back to these parts, to thank you for words you’ve said to 
me, which I never heeded at the time, but only laughed at, 
but which made me feel, afterwards what a bad life I had 
been leading, so that I hope now, sir, I’m different from 
what I used to be when you knew me before.” 

“Thank God for it,” said Arthur. “I remember, Dick, 
that you were a wild fellow enough ; you often made my 
heart ache when I heard one so young swear as you did, 
and keep company with the wreckers and the worst fellows 
in the village. How long is it since you were brought to a 
better mind ? ” 

“Well, it’s rather a long story, sir.” 

“ I’ll hear it after you’ve refreshed yourself with a good 
meal, and dried your wet clothes by the fire. Then you 
shall come up to my study, and tell me all about it. You 
shall sleep here to-night, Dick ; I’ll have a bed prepared for 
you.” 

“ Thank you kindly, sir ; I am hungry, there’s no mistake, 
for I’ve had nothing to eat to-day, as I had no money to 
pay for food, and I’ve been walking since seven o’clock 
this morning.” 

Arthur having seen that Dick was served with a Sub- 
stantial meal, retired t® his study, where he pondered over 
this singular and unexpected incident. Dick Evans was 
the very last of all the lads he had known in Sennen parish 


232 The Watchers on the Longships, 

whom he would have expected to turn to a better mind. 
It was he who had joined the plot so heartily for getting 
Philip seized by the press-gang, falling himself into the 
trap which he had laid for that poor lad ; he remembered 
now that he had seen him together with Bob in church on 
the morning of that eventful Sunday, but he had never 
heard of the motive which brought them there. Truly 
tv^onderful and mysterious are the dealings of the Lord ; 

how unsearchable are His judgments, and His ways past 
finding out ! 

Half an hour after there was a knock at the door, and 
Dick, looking brighter and refreshed, entered the room. 

“ Sit down by the fire, my lad,’^ said the parson, and 
now let me hear your story.’’ 

“ Yes, sir, willingly,” said Dick, and then he told the 
parson plainly the part he had taken in the plot to lure 
Philip into the hands of the press-gang. “ But, sir, you 
see me and Bob fell into the trap ourselves. You must 
have wondered that morning at seeing us in church ; but we 
bargained with Philip to go if he’d consent to come bathing 
with us in the afternoon. I did my best, I confess, not to 
listen to what you said ; but I couldn’t help hearing some 
things which stuck, as it were, in my heart, so that I couldn’t 
get them out — always coming back again when I least 
expected them. I was mad with rage at being dragged 
away from home where I was leading an idle life and was 
pretty much my own master. That I knew well enough 1 
shouldn’t be in the royal navy. I cursed Nichols and all 
the fellows who had led me into the plot, and I hated Philip 
more than ever as the cause of all my trouble. But I 
wasn’t long in his company. As I said, he and Bob were 
put aboard the ‘ Royal Sovereign,’ and I was sent on the 
‘Duke of Marlborough,’ both vessels belonging to the. 
same squadron. I was very obstinate and sulky at first, 


Christmas. 


and was flogged several times for insubordination. I kept 
company with the worst and roughest fellows on board. 
In actions in which I was several times engaged I was 
daring and fearless ; and though on these occasions I was 
once or twice commended by my superiors, I longed for 
my old free life at home, and always meant, had I the 
chance, to desert ; however, we cruised about and never 
put into any port. When, after a couple of months, we 
anchored in Plymouth Sound, a very sharp lookout was 
kept over the crew. I was then transferred to a small 
corvette, the ‘ Tiger,’ which was bound for South American 
waters. Only two of my former messmates went on board 
the vessel with me. The crew were as rough a lot as those 
of the ‘ Duke of Marlborough,’ but they just suited me, 
for, young as I was, I was bad as any of them, and up to 
any amount of sin and wickedness. We had a long voy- 
age across the Atlantic, but fair weather, on the whole ; 
when we reached the coast of South America, however, 
we encountered terrible gales. We were beaten about 
hither and thither, our ship became disabled, and we could 
not make for any port in which to refit. One fearful night 
I shall never forget ; the wind, which had been blowing 
hard all day from the east, rose to a hurricane ; we were 
driven fiercely on the rocky coast, for our disabled corvette 
was powerless to resist the violence of the gale. Now and 
then, indeed, by desperate efforts, we got her head to the 
wind, but we couldn’t keep her in that position long, so 
that we continued to drift toward the shore ; and all on 
board came to the conclusion that the loss of the vessel, 
and probably of our lives, was certain. There were the 
boats, indeed, as a last resource ; but when we looked at 
the raging sea and the size of the huge waves which dashed 
over our ship, there didn’t seem much hope of any boat 
weathering such a storm. Nevertheless, as we were being 


234 


The Watchers pji the Longships. 


driven faster and faster on to the rock, the captain ordered 
the boats to be lowered. The first was smashed against 
our vessel’s side before any one could get into it ; the 
second, filled with some of our officers and crew, was 
swamped within a hundred yards of us ; — all hands were 
drowned — we couldn’t save one, though we tried hard. 
In a few minutes our ship must be dashed upon the rocks. 
All discipline was at an end. The men, uttering oaths 
and curses, rushed to the spirit-room to drown their 
terror in drink, and for the first time in my life I was 
face to face with death. Somehow or other I couldn’t 
defy it as the other fellows did. My conscience, so long 
asleep, now awoke and began loudly to accuse me. I 
thought of the ships I had helped lure to destruction in 
my old Cornish home, and now it was my turn to perish. 
Then I tried to stifle these thoughts by joining in the wild 
oaths of my messmates, but it was no use. With a vio- 
lent crash we at last ran upon the rocks, and immediately 
the ship went to pieces. We were all cast into the cold 
sea. I managed to seize hold of a plank, and, being a good 
swimmer, succeeded in keeping myself afloat. I had, how- 
ever, to dodge the waves, and try to hinder myself from 
being dashed by their fury against the rocks. Before me 
I could see a line of coast rising in bare and rocky ledges ; 
I hoped to be able to reach this. The cries of my drown- 
ing companions rung in my ears ; a few only were able to 
keep their heads above water as I was doing. I felt my 
strength failing me — should I ever get to the longed-for 
shore ? The words I had heard in my childhood came into 
my mind now. I remembered, too, several things you, sir, 
said in your sermon that Sunday when I went to church 
with Bob and Philip. You said that God was like a loving 
Father, who never forgot that we were His children, and 
loved us still, though we were rebellious and disobedient, 


Christmas. 


235 


and never thought of Him ; that when we turned to Him 
and prayed to Him He would certainly hear us, and come 
and help us if we were in trouble and distress — but would 
he listen to one so vile as me, who had always despised 
and insulted Him, and laughed and mocked at religion? 
Just when these thoughts were in my mind, and when I was 
feeling so exhausted I knew I could bear up no longer, 
and must allow myself to sink in the raging surf, I felt a 
footing for the first time. Above me, like a stair of huge 
steps, rose the black rocks ; another stroke and I was 
able to stand up to my middle in the water. The deep 
gratitude I felt to God as I gazed up to the dark cliffs 
towering above me, I cannot describe. Standing in the 
water as I was, with the waves still dashing against me, in 
a few words I prayed — really prayed — for the first time 
in my life. I thanked God for His mercy in saving me 
from the raging sea ; confessed how sinful my life had been, 
and vowed to mend my ways. Then I clambered up the 
rocks, and sank utterly exhausted upon the ground. When 
I came to my senses I saw three or four of my messmates 
at a short distance from me ; they seemed as weak and 
faint as I was. When we had a little recovered from our 
fatigue we began to explore the country. We could find 
nothing to eat but the eggs of sea-birds. Some few miles 
further up we discovered a spring of rather brackish water, 
and glad we were to slake our burning thirst even with 
this. We soon came to the conclusion that we were in a 
desert island, not far, however, from the mainland, the 
coast of which we saw in the distance. This was a bad 
lookout for us, for we must starve here unless we were 
picked up soon. We found shelter in a cave from the cold 
wind which blew from the sea. Some provisions, too, were 
washed on shore from the wreck. We were six in number, 
all the rest had perished ; some of their bodies were washed 


236 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

ashore, and we buried them in the sand. After a week 
had passed away, and not a sail had been seen, we grew 
very melancholy and downcast ; and when one of our party 
died of exhaustion from want of proper food we felt still 
more low-spirited. We had stuck an old flag we had res- 
cued on the highest point of the island, so that passing 
vessels might know we were here. The weather now was 
much more favorable, being calm and bright ; but another 
of our men sunk beneath the hardships and privations we 
had to endure. Our party was now reduced to four — 
hope was dying out of our hearts. We felt that in our turn 
we must share the sad fate of our two mates. I did not 
fear death now, as I had that day when I struggled for my 
life amid the waves. It wasn’t much I knew about relig- 
ion ; I often wished I knew more but things came to my 
remembrance now which had long ago been forgotten — 
words I heard at the dame school and in church when I used 
to go as a little boy, and especially that Sunday when I went 
with Bob and Philip, and heard you preach there, sir. I 
felt that I was a great sinner ; but I remembered hearing 
you say that it was for the greatest of sinners that Jesus 
Christ came to die, and the words with which the service 
began and which I recollected having heard before — 
‘ When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness, 
and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his 
soul alive.’ Yes, sir, I was sure that for me, sinner as I 
was, there was a Saviour, and to Him I turned, asking Him 
if it were not His will to save my life, at least to save my 
soul. I tried now and then to speak to my poor messmates 
of these things.' Two of them mocked and laughed at me, 
but one listened quietly, and seemed to be comforted by 
what I said. But I am making my story too long, sir ; I 
must cut it short. After we had lost another of our men, 
and had well-nigh given up all hope of being saved, one 


Christmas, 


237 


morning we saw a sail ; it came nearer and nearer — our 
flag had been seen. The weather was calm, so they put 
out a boat and rowed to the shore. How thankful we were 
to greet our deliverers ! The three weeks we had passed 
on that desolate spot had reduced us three survivors to 
skeletons. The vessel that rescued us was a merchant- 
man, homeward bound. The captain was a humane man, 
and treated us very kindly. When we were well enough, as 
he was short of hands, we worked with a will, for we were 
all grateful to him for saving our lives. We had a fair wind 
and a prosperous voyage, and three days ago we anchored 
in Plymouth Sound. Then I took leave of my kind friend 
the captain, and came on here at once, determined to seek 
you out, sir, first, and ask your advice as to my future course. 
I hope to lead a very different life from what I did when I 
was in these parts before. Will you help me, sir ? I know 
I shall be laughed and jeered at, but I trust God, who has 
hitherto helped me, will grant me courage to stand it here, 
as I did on the desert island and on the voyage home.’’ 

Arthur had been deeply touched by Dick’s story. What 
a lesson it was to him, never to despair ; what a confirma- 
tion of the truth of the text, ‘‘Cast thy bread upon the 
waters, and thou shalt find it after many days.” How 
often had he grieved and repined at seeing no fruit of his 
labors, and said in his heart, like the desponding disciple, 
“Lord,* we have toiled all night, and taken nothing.” 
Here was an encouragement to him to work on more vig- 
orously than ever in that portion of his Lord’s vineyard to 
which he had been called. He warmly grasped the lad’s 
hand, and said — 

“Yes, Dick; I will, indeed, do my best to help you. 
God, who has begun the good work in you, will, I am sure, 
not forsake you, but strengthen you by His Holy Spirit 
manfully to stand up for His cause, and show yourself to 


238 


The Watchers on the Longships, 


be his faithful soldier and servant. To-morrow we will 
talk further over your affairs ; meanwhile, I will reflect as 
to what is best to be done for you. Now go and get a good 
night’s rest, which I am sure you need.” 

Dick, who was an orphan, had lived with a drunken 
uncle at Sennen, but this man had lately left the village ; 
there was, therefore, no home for Dick to go to. Arthur 
pondered over the question as to what could be done with 
the lad, and it suddenly struck him that he might share 
Owen’s duties as lighthouse-keeper. It was, indeed, a 
gloomy post for a young fellow of his age, but here, at 
all events he would be out of temptation, and he need only 
stay there for awhile, till something else was found for him 
to do. The parson determined to propose this to him next 
morning. 


A New Conspiracy. 


239 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A NEW CONSPIRACY. 

O conspiracy ! 

Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, 

When evils are most free ? Oh, then by day. 

Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
To mask thy mbnstrous visage?’* 

— Shakespeare. 

That was a rough, stormy Christmas-tide. Though the 
wind fell somewhat on the morning of St. Stephen's Day, 
it increased in the afternoon, and rose to a terrible gale in 
the evening. None felt it more severely than the two 
lonely dwellers in the lighthouse. All night long the wind 
howled, while the sea roared and raged, dashing with fury 
against the granite walls of the building. For the first 
time since they had removed thither, Mary experienced 
what a real gale was like on that exposed rock. The noise 
in the cavern below was awful. The child could only 
sleep by fits and starts, while her father sat up all night 
to watch, lest any accident should extinguish the lamps. 
Next day, when the fury of the gale seemed to have 
spent itself, Mary looked so pale and exhausted that her 
father was quite anxious about her. Ah ! Mary," he said 
to her, see you’ll never be able to stand such a life as 
this for the whole winter. You don’t look at all yourself 
to-day; and no wonder, after the night we’ve had.’’ 

Never mind, father,’’ she said, trying to speak more 
cheerfully; ‘‘I’m only a bit tired after such a bad night. 


240 The Watchers on the Longships. 

What a howling and roaring there was, and how the light- 
house shook when a great wave beat against it ! Tm not 
at all surprised now that Jordan’s hair turned white, and 
that he almost went mad.” 

“Neither am I,” said her father; “but I’m sure this 
ain’t the place for you, child. Next time the boat comes I 
shall have to send you back in it, and stay here alone for 
a time.” 

“ No, no, father, you won’t ; there’s not so much wind 
now, and after a good night’s rest I shall be all right again.” 

There had been no wrecks along the coast during this 
gale — thanks, probably, to the new lighthouse. On Inno- 
cents’ Day the wind sank, the sun shone out brightly, and 
there seemed every prospect of a spell of fine weather. 

In a couple of days Mary was as bright and cheerful as 
ever, and her father said no more about sending her back 
to Sennen. Before the Christmas week was over, they 
were gladdened by a visit from the parson. He had a great 
deal to tell Owen and his daughter. He related his inter- 
view with Pollard on Christmas Eve, and described the 
Christmas services, and how surprised and pleased he had 
been by Dick Evans’ appearance on the evening of that day. 
Owen listened eagerly to Arthur’s account of Dick, but 
not without many a sigh, for he thought of his own lost son, 
who had been carried off at the same time, and whose fate 
was still veiled in mystery. “ And so he’s come back, 
— Dick Evans ! Who’d have thought of such an idle vag- 
abond as he was, becoming so changed ? ” he said. “ And 
my poor Philip ! I often think about li^m and pray for 
him ; and what you’ve been telling me, sir, about this Dick 
has brought the whole story up to my mind afresh. I won- 
der if we shall ever see him again in this world ? ” 

“ I don’t despair of it, Owen. I am all the more hopeful 
now since Dick has returned to us,” said the parson. 


A Neiv Conspiracy. 


241 


Arthur mentioned to Owen his idea that Dick might 
share his duties as lighthouse-keeper for a time, and thus 
relieve Mary. Her father at first was greatly pleased at 
the proposal, but on further consideration, he feared 
lest her health might suffer, even more owing to grief at 
separation from him than from the solitude and confine- 
ment of her present rough life. Arthur told him there was 
no need to decide yet, as Dick was laid up ill at the manor- 
house, and it might be weeks before he was himself again. 

As it was a calm, bright morning, Arthur suggested that 
Owen and Mary should take a trip to Sennen Cove in the 
boat, while he and Abbott remained on the rock till their 
return. It would be a nice treat for Mary. Owen, too, 
would be able to have a look at his house and garden, and 
they need not be absent more than two or three hours. 

Mary was overjoyed at this kind proposal. She had 
been longing for several days to go on’ shore and see 
some of her old friends in the village. 

Owen at first hesitated ; he was afraid lest the weather 
should change, and the parson be again imprisoned on the 
rock. He at once raised this as an objection. 

Don't be afraid of that, Owen," said Arthur. “ There's 
every prospect of the weather holding up. It's bright and 
frosty, the wind northeast, not a cloud in the sky. ' Come, 
look sharp, and be off, if the worst come to the worst, too, 
I should have Abbott with me this time, you know." 

‘‘Well, sir, it's very kind of you, — and we'll go, then; 
but I'll take care to be back as soon’ as possible. It's true 
I want to go on shore very much for several things ; and 
Mary'll be pleased, I know." 

Ten minutes after Owen and the two other men were 
pulling heavily at the oars, while Mary, who looked the 
picture of happiness and contentment, sat at the helm. 
When they landed at the Cove, some fishing-boats had just 


242 The Watchers on the Lo 7 igships. 

come in, and a large quantity of fish was being landed. 
Several of the men stopped in their work when they per- 
ceived Owen and his daughter. Very few gave them 
a friendly greeting ; the majority received them in sullen 
silence. 

“What’s brought that fellow Tresilian on shore, I 
wonder ? ” said Nichols. “ I wish he’d stay here ; he did 
us mischief enough when he was on shore, certainly, but 
he does more still by keeping that cursed light burning on 
the rock. Can’t we manage to lock him up somewhere, 
Ben, and keep him here, so that the lamp shan’t be lighted 
for a night or two ? ” 

“What a fool ydu are, John,” said Pollard, “to think of 
such a thing. Don’t you see he’s left the parson and 
Abbott out there ? They’re a precious deal too sharp to 
leave their lighthouse untenanted for a moment ; and if 
we did kidnap Owen, the parson would stay there till he 
turned up again, and keep the lights burning as he did 
before.” 

“You’re right, Ben, I see,” replied Nichols. “Still I 
hope I’ll be revenged on the fellow yet.” 

Owen took no heed of the savage way in which his 
friendly greetings were met by most of his fellow-villagers. 
He and Mary proceeded to the cottage, where they found 
all in good order ; the garden, too, was as neat and trim as 
when they left it. Mary then went up to the village to 
make a few purchases and see some old friends, while 
Owen set to work to repair a small punt of his which he 
wanted to take out to the rock with him. On fine days he 
thought he might vary the monotony of his life by going 
out fishing in this boat close to the rock. It was so small 
and light that he would easily be able to drag it up and 
stow it away in the lower storeroom of the lighthouse ; 
and he would have no difficulty in launching it himself. 


A Nezv Conspiracy. 


243 


To secure this boat, indeed, was one great ohjeat he had 
in coming on shore that day. 

Mary had soon executed her commissions and seen her 
friends' Owen’s punt was fastened behind the boat. With 
a fair wind, they started on their return to the lighthouse ; 
the sail was hoisted, and in a short time they safely reached 
the rock, when Arthur arid Abbott at once prepared to 
depart. Owen and Mary heartily thanked the parson for 
giving them the chance of making this pleasant little visit 
on shore. When he perceived the boat which Owen had 
brought with him, and which he had dragged up into the 
storeroom, Arthur remarked, “ Don’t be rash in going out 
in that boat, Owen ; and never venture far. Think, if a 
sudden squall came on, and you were capsized, what would 
poor little Mary do alone here in the lighthouse ? I’m 
rather sorry you’ve brought it.” 

‘‘ Oh, never fear, sir ; it isn’t often I shall go out at all, 
and only in very smooth weather, and certainly never out 
of sight of the rock. It’ll be a great thing for us to get 
frersh fish now and then ; we can’t do much in that way 
with our lines from the rock.” 

“Well, Owen, remember how frail the punt is, and how 
suddenly the weather changes ; but now I must say good- 
bye. I shall try and come out again before long.” 

“ Good-bye, sir ; God bless you ; thank you for your 
kind visit,” said Owen. 

“And come again soon, sir,” cried Mary, as the parson 
waved his hand to her from the boat. 

The stormy weather which had been so prevalent during 
the winter appeared now to have come to an end, and was 
succeeded by a calm sea and a hard and long-continued 
frost. Every morning the sun shone like a red ball of fire 
through the thick mist in which he rose, and after shining 
brilliantly through the day would set in the afternoon in 


244 Watchers on the Longships, 

gorgeous colors of crimson and gold. Undisturbed by 
squalls and tempests, the fishermen round the coast plied 
their trade with success, and the sea all around was studded 
with the white sails of their smacks. Owen was one of 
those who profited by this long spell of fine weather. Every 
day he went out fishing in his little boat, while Mary 
watched him from the gallery round the lantern. Not only 
did he catch sufficient to supply food for himself and his 
daughter, but he was able to sell a good deal to the fisher- 
men he fell in with. One very calm day, indeed, he had 
ventured to run his boat on shore just below the Land’s 
End, and sold a good haul of cod he had taken that morn- 
ing to a group of fishermen there. The lighthouse was 
not far off, and it was such a clear day that Mary could 
see him all the time. When he came back, half an 
hour after, he asked her if she had been frightened at his 
absence. 

“ Oh, no, father,” she replied,” I am getting quite accus- 
tomed to it now ; such fin^weather as this there is nothing 
to fear ; and I’m so glad you are able to make a little money 
by selling the fish. Of course, I like to keep you in sight, 
father, but if it did happen that for an hour or so on a fine 
day like this I couldn’t see you, I don’t think I should be 
very much afraid.” 

‘‘ Never fear, my child,” said Owen ; “ I won’t go out of 
sight if I can help it. I wonder when Mr. Arthur’ll come 
to see us. It’s more than ten days since he was last here.” 

Yes, I can’t think why he doesn’t come ; he’s very busy, 
I expect,” said Mary. 

‘‘ To-morrow the men will come to bring us fresh provi- 
sions, most likely then we shall hear something of him,” 
rejoined Owen. 

He was right, for next day Abbott and another man 
canae gut to the rock with stores for the lightliouse-keeper, 


A New Conspij'acy. 245 

and they brought a message from the parson. He hoped, 
he said, to be able to pay them a visit next week, just now 
his time was fully occupied ; there were a great many sick 
in the parish he had to visit. Moreover, Dick Evans had 
been very ill ever since the night he had arrived at the 
manor-house, and now he was in such a violent fever that 
his life was in very great danger. 

‘‘ The parson is very anxious about the lad,^’ said Abbott ; 
‘‘ he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it, and he takes it to 
heart very much. He sits up all night with the poor fel- 
low, trying to soothe him when he’s delirious, and it’s 
wonderful how quiet Dick is when he’s got the parson by 
his side.” 

‘‘Oh, how kind and good Mr. Arthur is,” said Mary; 
“ he’ll wear himself out, he works so hard. I wish people 
were more grateful to him than they are.” 

“ Would that they were ! ” said her father. 

They sent word back to the parson how sorry they were 
not to see him ; they hoped Dick would soon be better ; as 
for themselves, they were well and happy, and enjoying this 
fine weather, which, so long as it lasted, made their resi- 
dence in the lighthouse quite pleasant. 

The more industrious of the population in the villages 
round the Cornish coast had profited by this favorable 
weather, and made a good sum by selling the fish which it 
had enabled them to catch, but to the lazy and evil-dis- 
posed, who lived from hand to mouth, and whose real trade 
was smuggling and wrecking, it was by no means so wel- 
come. The storms, indeed, which had heralded the ap- 
proach of winter, when no light shone out from the Long- 
ships to guide and warn the homeward-bound mariner, had 
brought the Sennen wreckers a rich harvest ; but all these 
ill-gotten gains had long since been spent in drink ; women 
and children were famishing ; men, gaunt and morose, hung 


24^ The Watchers on the Longships, 

round the ale-house, or lounged upon the bench, uttering 
curses upon the weather, the lighthouse or the parson, 
whichever at the moment seemed to them the cause of 
their present misery and poverty — never once reflecting 
that their own evil and idle conduct was alone to blame 
for it. 

March had come with its cold east winds, clear skies, 
and lengthening days. It was more than a month since a 
drop of rain had fallen. Such fine weather, all agreed, 
could not last much longer. Nichols and his nephew were 
standing on the shore gazing out to sea, on which there 
was scarcely a ripple ; the sun had just set, and the western 
horizon was a mass of glorious color. The features of 
both men bore a sullen and discontented look. At last 
Nichols turned sharply round, and, followed by his nephew, 
walked towards the village. A thought seemed to have 
struck him, and a malicious grin passed over his face as he 
said to his nephew, “ This won’t do. Bill ; we can’t go on 
much longer like this, but it’s a long lane that has no turn- 
ing. I expect the equinoctial gales will come early this 
year.” 

“ They won’t do us much good, uncle, so long. as the lamps 
burn in that lighthouse,” replied Bill. 

But they shan’t burn any longer. Bill,” the elder man 
exclaimed with an oath, as he stamped his foot on the 
ground. ‘‘ As sure as my name’s John Nichols, I’ll devise 
some plan forousting that fellow Tresilian from his present 
nest, in spite of all the parsons in the world.” 

“ You’ll be clever if you do, uncle. Hasn’t the parson 
always foiled us, always got the better of us at the last } ” 

“ He can’t get any one to live in his lighthouse except 
Owen, you know well enough. Bill. Didn’t he scour all the 
neighborhood round to find somebody ? Why, I know he 
sent to Plymouth, and even to London, but all to no pur- 


A New Conspiracy, 


247 


pose. I tell you, if it hadn’t been for Tresilian, there’d 
have been no light in the Longships now.” 

“ You’re about right there, I think, uncle.” 

Yes ; and once get rid of Owen, and you put out the 
lights for no one knows how long, perhaps for good,” said 
Nichols. 

‘‘ But how to get rid of him, is the question, uncle.” 

‘‘ Ha ! Bill, I’ve got my plan ; but here we are ; let’s 
see which of our chaps are to hand.” 

A few of the worst and most desperate characters of the 
village were sitting smoking and drinking in the ale-house ; 
among them was our old acquaintance, Ben Pollard. 

The two new-comers were heartily welcomed, and room 
was made for them at the table. 

“ What’s the news, John ? ” said Pollard. 

‘‘ News ! why, that ere long we shall have a change of 
weather, and equinoctial gales, too, if I’m not very much 
mistaken,” said Nichols. 

Your news is too good to be true, John; no such luck 
for us just yet,” returned one of the men. 

‘‘And if we did get foul weather,” remarked another, 
“ what good would it bring us now ? for there’s not much 
chance of wrecks with that light burning night after night 
in the Longships ! ” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Nichols, “but with your 
help,^ mates, I’ve made up my mind to put out those 
lamps.” 

“You’ll never succeed in that, John, and if "you did 
they’d be lighted again the next evening. We should have 
a nice piece of work to do it, get ourselves into a scrape, 
and gain nothing in the end,” remarked another of the 
party. 

“Wait till you’ve heard my plan, then perhaps you’ll 
change your minds,” said Nichols. 


248 The Watchers on the Longships. 

“ Come, out with it, then,” said they all. 

“ Well, you know last time Tresilian was ashore here 
he fetched away his punt, and I’m told since he’s had it out 
on the rock ; he goes out fishing in it every day if the 
weather’s at all fine. He’s been known at times, too, to 
land just close below the Land’s End, and sell his fish there 
to some of our fellows, or to chaps from Penberth. Now, 
my plan is, that, we keep a sharp lookout, and next time 
he comes ashore we just carry him off by main force, and 
keep him imprisoned for as long as it pleases us in the 
smuggler’s cave between this and the Land’s End. We can 
make that prison secure enough ; the gate has heavy bars 
and bolts, and no one is likely to pass near it to whom he 
can call out. Meanwhile, there’ll only be the child left on 
the rock, and most likely she’ll die of terror, or go mad like 
Jordan ; anyhow, she won’t be able to light the lamps, 
that’s certain ” 

“ But,” interrupted one of the men, “ if we do this on a 
fine day like to-day, it won’t do us any good ; the parson’ll 
hear directly that the light does not burn ; he’ll send off at 
once to the rock, find Owen not there, and move heaven 
and earth till he discovers him, and when he does a nice 
mess we shall be in.” 

‘‘We must watch our opportunity,” said Nichols ; “ a fine 
day is often followed by a stormy night. I don’t say my 
plan’ll succeed, but it’s worth trying. We can’t go on like 
this; we shall all starve soon. Nothing venture, nothing 
have, I say. Even if we fail, we’d better make the at- 
tempt.” 

“ My opinion, John, is, that you’d better leave the matter 
alone,” said Ben Pollard ; “ no good’ll come of it, I war- 
rant ; the parson’ll get the better of you somehow or other. 
I’m no friend to Tresilian, you all know well enough, and 
glad I should be to see the lamps put out on the Longships. 


A New Conspu'acy. * 249 

But we Ve already robbed Owen of his son ; weVe made the 
poor fellow’s life wretched ever since, and as to kidnapping 
him and shutting him up in a cave for nobody knows how 
long, and leaving that poor child alone to die of fright in 
the lighthouse, it seems to me a cowardly plan, and it’ll be 
a long time before I can make up my mind to consent 
to it.” 

“That’s just what I feel about it,” said another man. 

“ Why, Ben, you’re the last chap I should have thought 
would have taken that view of the matter,” said Nichols 
angrily ; “ you and I have hitherto always stood together, 
what’s changed you now ? ” 

“ I’m not changed, John, but I don’t like your plan ; 
you’ve got no children of your own, so you can’t feel as 
Charley and I do, and it’s what may happen to the girl all 
alone in the lighthouse sets me against your designs.” 

Nichols was bitterly disappointed and vexed at meeting 
with opposition in so unexpected a quarter. Nevertheless, 
most of the men were in favor of his plan, though they 
considered it too rash to ensure success. Still they were 
so desperate, and times were so bad, that they felt inclined 
to risk anything to better their condition ; Nichols hoped, 
too, that when he got Ben alone, he would be able to talk 
him over to his way of thinking. It was his wife, he felt 
sure, who had made him so soft-hearted, and she, he knew, 
was influenced by their common enemy, the parson. 

The conspirators sat on, drinking and talking, till very 
late. With the exception of Ben and another man, who 
also had a large family, all agreed to aid Nichols, and it 
was arranged that they should meet again next evening to 
consult further upon this cowardly enterprise. 

Ben went home that night not in the best of humors. 
He did not wish to offend his old friend, but still he could 
not make up his mind to take part in the plot. He did 


^$0 The Watchers on the Longships. 

not like the idea of the poor child being left alone, to 
perish, perhaps, on that lonely rock. When he found, how- 
ever, that his children had gone hungry to bed, and was 
met by the reproaches of his weeping wife for his idleness 
in not trying to make something by fishing, as other men 
did, his temper was by no means improved. Matters 
seemed to him so bad that he began to think he had better 
join Nichols after all. 

In this frame of mind he sauntered down to the beach 
next morning, meeting Nichols immediately, who was, in- 
deed, on the watch for him. “Well, Ben,” he said, “you 
look very down in the mouth this morning ; what^s the 
matter now ” 

“The old story, John,” said Ben; “no bread in the 
house, the children crying, and my wife abusing me ; but 
it’s not my fault, I tell her, that times are bad.” 

“ It will be your fault, Ben, if you let slip a good oppor- 
tunity for bettering yourself. What made you stand out 
against my plan last night ? ” 

“ Well, it struck me as cowardly and cruel, and I think 
the same now,” he replied ; “ but when one’s brought to 
such sore straits as I am now one’s ready to catch at any- 
thing. I’ve pretty well made up mind to join you, 
John.” 

“ That’s right, Ben ; I knew you’d come round to my 
way of thinking at last. It’s the first time we’ve ever dif- 
fered, and I hope it’ll be the last.” 

“But it’s a desperate plan, John, and I doubt whether 
it will succeed,” said Ben, hesitatingly. 

“It’s our only chance, Ben — once rid of Tresilian, and 
we’re certain that during the coming gales no light’ll burn 
in that cursed lighthouse ; then we’re sure to get one or 
two good wrecks, as we always do at this time of the 
year.” 


A New Conspiracy, 


251 


‘‘Well, as you say, John, there seems nothing else to be 
done, and I shan’t stand in your way. I’ll do my best to 
help you.” 

“You’re a good fellow, Ben,” declared Nichols, clapping 
him on the shoulder. “ I knew you’d come all right at last. 
We’ll meet again, and have a glass to-night, and talk the 
matter over. 

The two men then separated, Ben turning homewards, 
looking still downcast and gloomy ; Nichols, with beaming 
face and a chuckle of delight, making for the beach, to 
meet his hopeful nephew, whom he perceived in the dis- 
tance. 

That same evening Mary and her father were sitting be- 
side a cheerful fire in their little room in the lighthouse, 
Owen was busy mending his nets, Mary had the big Bible 
open before her. 

“What a long spell of calm weather we’ve had, Mary,” 
said the former ; “ I’m very thankful for it ; since I’ve taken 
to fishing my life here has been much pleasanter ; and be- 
sides the good wages I get here for being lighthouse-keeper, 
I’ve made a nice little sum selling fish. I’ll be able to 
provide you with more comforts now, Mary.” 

“Oh, father ! I’m sure I’m comfortable enough. I never 
thought I should take to living out on this rock, so far away 
from home, as I have done. I’m quite used to it now ; 
why, even puss has got to like her new home in the light- 
house. Look how happy she is before the fire ! ” 

“Yes, my child; fine weather has made a great differ- 
ence to our life here,” said Owen ; “ but we must remember 
it can’t always be fine. In a few days, I feel sure, we shall 
have storms again.” 

“ Well, I hope they won’t be very bad, father. If the sea 
gets at all rough you won’t go out fishing, will you ? ” she 
asked, anxiously. 


2^2 The Watchers on the Loirgships. 

“No, no, my child ; never fear that; I'll run no risk, for 
your sake,” said Owen. “ To-morrow, I think, we’re pretty 
sure of a fine day, but I shan’t be surprised if that’s the 
last for a long time.” 

“What makes you think so, father?” asked Mary. 

“ I’ve lived at sea, or by the sea, all my life, child,” said 
Owen, “ and I am pretty well acquainted with the signs of 
coming weather.” 

“ Well, we must try to make the best of it, father. I 
hope it won’t be worse than it was six weeks ago.” 

“ I hope not, Mary ; but you’ll be more used to it now, 
and won’t mind the noise of the roaring down below so 
much as you did then.” 

“ Oh, no, father ; there’s nothing to be afraid of when 
one knows what it is that causes the noise ; and besides, 
with you close to me, I shall never be afraid.” 

Next morning dawned bright and fine again ; the wind, 
however, had changed, and the air was milder. Owen felt 
'more certain than ever that the fine weather would soon 
come to an end. The sea was everywhere studded with the 
white sails of homeward-bound vessels. If foul weather 
came on suddenly that night how many of these, Owen 
thought, would be saved from shipwreck by the warning 
light which it was his duty to keep burning ! But he must 
profit by the fine morning, and get a few hours’ fishing, he 
might not have another chance for a long time ; so after 
breakfast he kissed his daughter, gathered up his nets, 
launched his little boat, and rowed out towards the west- 
ward. Mary, telescope in hand, watched him from the gal- 
lery ; every now and then he made signs to her when he 
had been particularly lucky in securing a large fish ; and 
that morning he was more than usually successful. After 
he had been out about a couple of hours, the sky grew over- 
cast ; and as his boat was nearly full of fish, he determined 


A New Conspiracy. 


253 


to row to the shore at once, sell all his fish, except what he 
wanted for his own consumption, and then return to the 
lighthouse by their usual dinner-time. 

As he rowed past, he called out to Mary, who was still in 
the gallery, that he would soon be back, and that she had 
better begin to cook the dinner. 

Make haste, father,’^ she replied ; the weather’s going 
to change. Look at those black clouds ! ” and she pointed 
to the west. 

Never fear, Mary,” he cried, cheerfully ; they are a 
long way off yet. I shall have plenty of time to get back 
before that squall comes.” 

The little girl watched her father through the telescope 
till she saw him run his boat on shore, and perceived the 
men coming down to meet him, as they always did. He’ll 
soon be back, now,” thought Mary ; won’t watch him 
any longer, but go and see about getting his dinner ready.” 

She ran merrily down the stairs, stirred up the fire, and 
began her preparations. “ In half, an hour he’ll be back,” 
she said to herself, cheerfully. 

More than half an hour had passed. Mary ran up to the 
gallery to look out. She saw nothing of her father ; and 
on pointing the telescope towards the shore, she perceived 
his boat lying in the same position as when he landed, but 
not a trace of any human being could she discern near it. 

The child was alarmed. Her father had never been away 
so long before — never, indeed, had he gone out of sight of 
the lighthouse. He would not willingly remain long ashore ; 
there must be some very strong reason for it. Perhaps the 
parson had sent for him ; but that was not likely. Mr. 
Arthur was the last person who would do anything to 
frighten her, and he would know she must be frightened if 
her father was detained on shore, and kept out of her sight. 
Put he couldn’t be long, she thought ; he \vould come soon, 


254 Watchers on the Lo7igships, 

Already the sky was darker, and the black clouds were 
rising higher and higher in the western horizon. Some 
drops of rain were beginning to fall, and here and there the 
waves were tipped with white foam, and no longer broke 
noiselessly and gently against the rocks below. All these 
signs of bad weather would surely hasten her father’s re- 
turn. Again she went down stairs, and busied herself with 
the dinner; yet she could not stay there long, but soon 
returned to the lantern ; and now with trembling hands 
grasped the telescope, to be disappointed once more at 
sight of her father’s boat still in the same place, but no 
trace of its owner ; and the wind was rising more and more, 
and the rain descending in torrents. 

What could have happened to her father ? It was two 
o’clock now, and still there were no signs of him. The 
poor child did not know what to do ; slowly she went down 
the staircase into the room, and throwing herself into her 
little chair, she burst into tears. For some time she sat 
sobbing as if her heart would break. The dinner was all 
ready, but her father was not there to eat it, and she ^ had 
no appetite to touch a morsel. She listened to the rising 
wind and to the sound of the waves, which now began to 
beat with violence against the rock. She perceived how 
dark it had become — the sky overcast by black clouds, 
and the rain, too, coming down more heavily than ever. 
She went up to the gallery again. Alas ! it was only too 
plain to her that it would be impossible for her father to 
land on the rock in such a surf as was now foaming around 
the lighthouse. The only hope was that he might have 
gone to Sennen, and would come out in a large fishing 
boat, from which he might possibly effect a landing. But 
why should he have gone there ? The more she thought 
of it the more mysterious and inexplicable seemed his ex- 
traordinary disappearance. Could he have been suddenly 


A New Conspiracy. 


255 


taken ill ? had an accident happened to him on the beach ? 
Surely, had this been the case he would have sent some 
one off in the boat to tell her. The real truth the poor 
child never guessed ; she was too young, too innocent, to 
fathom the depths of human malice and wickedness, or to 
imagine anything so base and cowardly as the vile con- 
spiracy of which her poor father and herself were the vic- 
tims. 

She stood in the driving rain and mist, the wind rapidly 
rising to a gale howled around her, while she strained her 
eyes in the direction whence she hoped to discover the sail 
of the Sennen boat. But though the sea all around was 
dotted with sails, from the large three-master to the humble 
fishing-boat, the familiar and so eagerly-desired smack no- 
where showed itself ; and now the wind had risen greatly, 
and so violent were the waves, that if the boat were to 
come it was plain enough no one would be able to land on 
the rock. All the horror of her situation seemed to burst 
upon the unfortunate little girl ; she ran down into the room 
below, covered her face with her hands, and burst into a 
paroxysm of tears. 

But now let us turn to her unhappy father, and follow 
his fortunes. After he had rowed past the lighthouse, he 
made for the shore as rapidly as possible. He saw the bad 
weather coming, and knew that Mary would not be easy 
till she had him safe back with her again ; but he also saw 
people waiting on the sand ; he knew they were looking 
out for him, and that the bargain, therefore, would soon be 
concluded. When he ran his boat on shore, two men came 
•forward at once and helped him to pull hemp. He recog- 
nized them both, as he was constantly in the habit of selling 
fish to them. They did not belong to Sennen, but to a 
village some five miles along the coast to the eastward. 
The contents of the boat were soon emptied on the sand, 


256 The Watchers on the Longships. 

Then there was more bargaining than usual. Owen asked 
a very moderate sum for his fish, but the men disputed his 
charge, a circumstance which had not occurred before. 
Owen did not choose to give in, as he knew his price was a 
fair one. At last a compromise was effected ; then the 
men said they had no money to pay him, but their mate, 
who was a few yards off sitting under the cliff cooking 
their dinner, would settle with him. Owen, perfectly un- 
suspicious of treachery, followed as desired. He had not 
gone ten yards from his boat, and had just turned round 
the corner of a huge rock which lay on the sand, when he 
heard a yell of mocking laughter, and saw before him 
Nichols, his nephew, Pollard, and three or four more of 
the Cove men, notorious smugglers and wreckers who 
feared neither God nor man. Immediately he perceived 
that he had fallen into a trap. It was clear enough now 
why the fishermen, bribed by these villains, had detained 
him on the sand. What the men meant to do with him he 
could not guess — perhaps kill him outright, for he felt they 
were bad enough for that, and when he saw that Nichols 
was their ringleader he could not hope for much mercy. 
And, indeed, Nichols — had he dared — would gladly have 
made an end of his enemy altogether, but, like most 
thorough villains, he was a coward, too. Moreover, he was 
not sure that all his companions would have consented to 
so desperate a measure as this. Ben certainly would not ; 
and in that case they might have informed against him. 
He kept, therefore, to his original plan of confining Owen 
in the cave, so that the lighthouse might be left without a 
guardian. All had been planned the night before in the 
ale-house. The fine weather seemed the great obstacle to 
their schemes, for should that continue the extinction of 
the lamps would bring them no great advantage ; but, as 
Nichols had foretold, a change was at hand, heavy gales 


A New Conspiracy. 


257 


were coming on, and thus all chances seemed to combine 
to favor their iniquitous designs. 

Owen, when he found himself surrounded by these men, 
drew himself up, and standing with his back to the rock 
awaited the attack which he knew to be imminent. Yield 
without a struggle he certainly would not. If he was to 
lose his life he would sell it dearly. “ Ha ! ha ! cried 
Nichols, the bird’s caught in a trap. You’re our prisoner 
now, Tresilian, and we mean to keep you as long as it suits 
our purpose.” 

‘‘Your prisoner, indeed!” said Owen, contemptuously. 
“ You don’t think I’m going to yield to such as you. Give 
me the money you owe me, Sam, at once,” he said, turning 
to the fisherman, “ and I’ll be off this instant.” 

The man thus spoken to made no reply, but slunk away 
with his companion. Their part in the plot was already 
played out, and they had received their reward in advance. 

“We’ll pretty soon let you know that you are our pris- 
oner, and in our power,” said Nichols, with a malicious 
grin. 

Owen looked so resolute and determined that not one 
of the men ventured to lay hands on him. Of course he 
was not a match for all of them together, but singly there 
was not one who was his equal in strength. 

“ Whoever touches me does so at his peril,” he exclaimed, 
and he fixed his eyes with contempt on Nichols, who 
winced beneath his glance. 

Nichols, the ringleader, making no reply, the men all 
looked rather sheepish, and a few moments’ silence ensued. 

As long as he maintained his defiant attitude with his 
back to the rock Owen felt certain that not one of the 
men would attack him, but he could not stand thus inactive 
all the afternoon. He must make a desperate effort to 
regain his boat and push off to the lighthouse, Now or 


258 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

never, he thought, was his opportunity. His assailants 
looked ..cowed ; a resolute move on his part might be suc- 
cessful — at all events he would make the attempt. 

He left his position of security, and rapidly, with a bold 
air, turned back towards the beach. But the villains who 
had so skilfully laid a trap for him were not going to let 
their victim slip out of their hands so easily. Moreover, 
he was now assailable in the rear. At a sign from Nichols 
they fell upon him simultaneously, endeavoring to seize his 
arms, throw him on the ground and bind him. 

Now a desperate struggle ensued. Owen struck out 
right and left. There was not a man who did not feel the 
weight of his arm. Young Nichols soon lay howling on the 
ground, his uncle’s face streamed with blood, while another 
of his assailants fell prostrate and stunned. Twice did 
Owen succeed in ridding himself of his foes, and making a 
further advance towards his boat. 

Cowardly ruffians ! ” he cried, let me go. Don’t you 
see I’m a match for the whole lot of you ! ” 

We’ll soon put that notion out of your head,” cried 
their ringleader ; and they now fell upon Owen more des- 
perately than ever. He was already bleeding, and much 
weakened. A blow on the head felled him to the ground, 
and once down the force of numbers overpowered him. 
Every effort to rise and escape from his foes was vain. 
They had so entirely lost all sense of manliness that they 
struck the poor fellow repeatedly as he lay. He soon be- 
came stunned and senseless. Then, with a stout rope they 
bound his hands behind his back, and half-dragged, half- 
carried him along the shore, till they reached the mouth of 
the cave destined to be his prison. 

Ben Pollard had not joined very heartily in this foul 
deed, for once or twice his conscience had smitten him. 
The action was such a thoroughly mean and cowardly one 


A New Conspiracy. 


259 


that he did not like being a party to it. On the other hand, 
his family were starving, and he did not wish to break 
altogether with his friend Nichols. Not a single blow did 
he level at Owen ; he only helped to hold him while the 
others bound him, and carried him to the cave. This was 
one of those low, narrow, winding caverns to be found in 
most of the rocky cliffs round our shore, which were often 
the haunt of smugglers and thieves. In those days it was 
a favorite resort of the Cornish wreckers. Close by they 
burned their false lights to lure vessels on the rocks, and 
hither they dragged and concealed the property which by 
their villainy, they had secured. 

The entrance to the cave was concealed by a lofty mass 
of rock. It was barred by a strong wooden gate, well pro- 
vided with iron bolts and padlocks. The place might, 
therefore, well be used for a prison. A more wretched 
dungeon could scarcely be conceived. Dark even in bril- 
liant noonday, damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the 
ground full of pools of foul stagnant sea-water, the air so 
chilly that it seemed to freeze one to the very bones — such 
was the place to which his dastardly enemies consigned the 
luckless Tresilian. 

They dragged him, still unconscious, into a dark recess 
of the cave. Here, bound, bruised, and bleeding they 
were about to leave him ; but this was too much for Ben, 
and he remonstrated with his companion. 

Surely you won’t leave the fellow with his hands tied like 
that — and you said, John, you’d give him some food, too.” 

Yes,” replied Nichols, I’ve got some dry bread and 
a bottle of water for him ; but you seem to be precious 
careful about the rascal all of a sudden, Ben.” 

When we’ve got him safe and gained our object I can’t 
see what’s the good of treating the man more cruelly than 
need be, John,” said Ben ; ‘‘why not unbind his hands ? ” 


26 o The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

Because he’ll be trying to get out, and may succeed for 
all you know,” said Nichols. 

“ But he can’t get to his food like that, John ; we don’t 
want to starve him to death, I suppose.” 

Nichols uttered a horrible oath and glared fiercely at 
Ben, who, without saying another word, took out his knife 
and cut the cords round Owen’s wrists. No onc^interfered, 
for most of the men sided with Pollard, and saw no reason 
why their captive should remain bound, as, with the strong 
gate well bolted there was no chance of his escape from 
this prison. 

They turned away and left him. The bolts and bars of 
the gate were suddenly drawn, Nichols putting the key 
of the padlock in his pocket. Their victim was safe now, 
and could do them no further harm. Everything had 
favored them. The sky was dark and overcast ; the wind, 
already rising, would blow a gale before nightfall ; rain was 
falling heavily; no lamps would shine from the light- 
house to-night, and as the sea was covered with shipping 
there was every chance that some vessel would be driven 
on shore. 

Nichols was so pleased that he almost forgot his ill- 
humor with Ben for unbinding Owen, as well as the wounds 
and bruises he had received in the struggle. Most of the 
men bore traces of the conflict, and agreed if any ques- 
tions were asked to say that they had a fight among them- 
selves — not a very uncommon occurrence. They re- 
turned to the village to make every preparation for their 
dark night’s work. 

Let us meanwhile look at poor Owen in his prison. It 
was more than an hour after his cowardly foes had left 
him before he came thoroughly to his senses. He stretched 
himself, opened his eyes, and seemed at first to be in utter 
darkness - but as he became accustomed to the gloom he 


A New Conspiracy 261 

saw a very faint light gleaming in the distance. He felt 
sick, sore, in terrible pain. Where was he } What could 
have happened to bring him into this state ? Gradually he 
began to remember all that had occurred. He knew now 
why he felt such a terrible oppression in his head, why all 
his limbs ached so much. All the horror of his situa- 
tion flashed across his mind. They had carried out their 
threat, then ; he was a prisoner ; and from the chilliness of 
his dungeon, the dampness of the ground, and the strong 
smell of sea-weed, he felt sure that he was immured in 
some cave along the shore. He raised himself with diffi- 
culty — how stiff and bruised he was ! — and staggered 
through the darkness towards the gleam of light, groping 
his way to the entrance of the cave ; but here the strong 
gate barred all further progress. He shook it with all his 
strength, but it did not yield an inch ; he was, indeed, a pris- 
oner, and in what a dungeon ! Like a madman he again 
put forth all his might, trying to wrench off the posts, or by 
the weight of his body break through the gate, but all to 
no avail. Weak from loss of blood and exhausted by 
these efforts, he sank down on the ground utterly wretched 
and hopeless. 

And then a thought which was far more terrible than his 
own sufferings came into his agonized mind. His daugh- 
ter, his darling Mary, what had become of her ? She was 
left alone in the lighthouse, expecting him hour after hour ; 
and in terrible suspense and grief what would she do? 
She could never guess what had become of him. His 
absence would be enough to break her heart. She would 
die of fright at being left alone all night in the lighthouse. 
Bitterly did he reproach himself for ever landing on the 
shore. Had not the parson warned him to be careful when 
he went out fishing in his boat not to go too far away and 
leave Mary alone ! To add to his anguish^ too, he heard 


262 7 'he Watchers on the Longships. 

how the wind was rising, how the waves were roaring and 
dashing upon the shore. The rock which stood before the 
entrance of the cave hid the open sea from his view, but 
its sound told him of the coming gale. The sense of his 
utter powerlessness to help either his daughter or himself 
seemed to drive him to the verge of madness. Again he 
shook the bars of his prison, and cried out, “ Help ! help ! 
for God’s sake, help ! ” but the only answer he received was 
the shrill cries of the sea-birds, as they sought among the 
rocks above a shelter from the coming storm ! 

Again, overcome by his exertions, he sank to the ground. 
The wind howled and whistled through the bars of the gate, 
and blew in so coldly upon him that it made him shiver. 
But he had forgotten his own pain and trouble now, so en- 
tirely was his mind occupied by the terrible situation of his 
darling child. He pictured to himself how she would wait for 
his return — stand on the gallery and strain her eyes in the di- 
rection whence she might expect to see his boat — how fright- 
ened she would be when she heard the wind howling and 
saw the waves rising and dashing furiously against the light- 
house, and felt that, as there was now no hope of a landing 
being effected on the rock, she must pass the night there 
alone ! He thought of Jordan’s fate ; if a strong man had 
been driven half mad by the horrors of one solitary night 
out on that storm-beaten rock, what would be the condition 
of a poor little child ? He scarcely dared hope that she 
could survive it. And the lamps, too, would fail to shine 
to-night, for he knew that even if Mary were not rendered 
powerless by fear, she would not be able to reach them, or 
know how to trim and arrange them properly. 

With his hands pressed against his aching brow, he sat 
crouched down in a corner of the cave. Not a ray of com- 
fort fell upon his anguished soul. What a life of misfortune 
and trouble his had been 1 His wife dead, his son torn 


A New Co 7 ispiracy, 263 

from him, and, for all he knew, dead, too, and now his 
daughter, his only child, doomed to a horrible fate — himself 
a prisoner, powerless to aid her. In rapid succession these 
blows had fallen upon him, and for a time he gave way to 
utter despair. 

Then, as he greiw a little calmer, he began to think of all 
he had heard the parson say, and of what Mary had read 
to him, during their long evenings in the lighthouse out of 
the big Bible, about there being a Father in heaven who cares 
for all his children here on earth — One “ Who does not 
afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.” He 
remembered, too, that only last night Mary had been read- 
ing to him out of the gospels the words of our Lord him- 
self, showing how He took care even of the sparrows, not 
one of them being forgotten before God ; and then all the 
words of the text came into his mind, — “ Even the hairs of 
your head are all numbered: fear not, therefore; ye. are 
of more value than many sparrows.” And this God was 
almighty. He was able to overrule all the plots and 
designs of evil men, and make them work together for His 
own glory, and for the good of those who loved and feared 
Him. Could He not, then, if He willed, deliver him from 
this dungeon ? Could he not watch over and protect his 
beloved child, exposed to the fury of the tempest on that 
lonely rock ? He remembered, too, other words he had 
heard Mary read, — ‘‘It is not the will of your Father 
which is in Heaven that one of these little ones should 
perish.” And surely she was one of Christ’s little ones. 
He could not, then, suffer her to perish. Oh ! he would 
pray to Him, and entreat Him to protect her. The all- 
merciful One could not turn a deaf ear to a poor father’s 
prayer for his only child ; He could not be unfaithful to his 
promise, “ Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will 
deliver thee, and thou shalt, glorify me.” Owen knelt on 


264 The Watc/icrs 011 the Longships. 

the' cold damp sand, and fervently prayed the Almighty to 
guard his dear Mary in her solitary watch, and make her 
feel that though deprived of the care of her earthly father, 
her heavenly Father was near her still, to protect and com- 
fort her. When he rose from his knees he felt calmer 
and more resigned to his hard fate. It was now almost 
dark. He was faint with hunger as well as from the rough 
treatment he had received He wondered if his cruel en- 
emies had left him any food ; perhaps — terrible thought — 
they meant to starve him to death in that dungeon. Hap- 
pily his tinder-box and matches were in his pocket, so he 
struck a light and speedily discovered the bread and water. 
The food refreshed him, but he was still so weak and ex- 
hausted that, in spite of his grief and anxiety, he soon sank 
into a heavy slumber. 


The Little Watcher. 


265 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LITTLE WATCHER ON THE LONGSHIPS. 

“ And the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
That saved she might be ; 

And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea sand.” 

— Longfellow. 

For some time poor Mary sat in her chair before the fire, 
and gave way to her grief. Her poor father, what could 
have happened to him ? Why had he not returned 1 These 
questions occupied her mind even more than her own lonely 
situation, for if she could only feel sure that no evil had 
befallen him she thought she might endure a night alone 
in the lighthouse, dreadful as it would be. 

Rousing herself, she perceived how dark it had become ; 
she heard, too, how the tempest was rising and what a fear- 
ful night was in store for her. With trembling hands she 
tried to make up the* fire, and presently, as its cheerful 
blaze lighted the little room, her eyes fell on the great 
Family Bible. Ah! that was still left to her; could she 
not draw some comfort in her trouble from its sacred 
pages ? Among the Methodists in those days was a well- 
meaning custom — which frequently, however, degenerated 
into superstition — of opening the Bible at random, put- 
ting the finger on the page, and reading the text on which 


266 The Watc/iers on the Longs hips. 

it rested. This was supposed to give an answer to prayer, 
or to direct what course should be pursued in a matter of 
difficulty or perplexity. Mary had often seen her mother 
do this, and how she thought she would follow her example. 
She took down the Bible, and put it on the table, then, 
praying God to guide and direct her, she opened the holy 
volume at the Book of Psalms ; her finger rested on the 
text, ‘‘What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee. In 
God I will praise His word, in God I have put my trust, I 
will not fear what flesh can do unto me.” 

Here, indeed, was comfort ! It seemed as if God him- 
self was speaking to her out of the sacred book. He was 
* telling her not to fear ; that He was at her side to protect 
her, lonely as she was, through that raging storm. The 
words of another Psalm she knew by heart came with 
fresh consolation into her soul: “Yea, though I walk 
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no 
evil ; for Thou art with me ; Thy rod and Thy staff they 
comfort me.” And her father? Would not the same 
Saviour be with him, too ; could she not trust him into the 
loving hands of Him whose tender mercies are over all His 
works. She knelt down, and, with her head resting on the 
well-worn open book, in simple childlike words she prayed 
to God, for His dear Son’s sake, to watch over and pro- 
tect her beloved father, and to bring him back to her at 
last in safety. And thus, not far from each other, separated 
only by a narrow but impassable belt of raging sea, the 
hearts of father and daughter were as one, and their com- 
mon prayers for each other’s protection were mingled as 
they ascended to the ever-ready ear of Him who never 
turneth away from the prayer of the poor, the needy, or 
the destitute. 

When she arose from her knees she did not feel so 
frightened. She could trust God to protect her father 


The Little Watcher. 


267 


and watch over herself. The sun had set, it was getting 
dark, and already past the time when Owen was accus- 
tomed to light the lamps. She heard him remark that 
morning how much shipping there was about, and that if 
squally weather came on in the evening the warning light 
might save many vessels from destruction. And now a 
gale was blowing, and her father was not at his post. Here 
was a fresh misfortune, another cause for sorrow and regret. 
Then the thought struck her, could she light the lamps t 
She had often seen her father do it, but she knew the 
lamps were fixed very high up on the lantern, her father 
was a tall man and could easily reach them, but she was 
afraid she could not. She ran up to the lantern, rain and 
spray were both beating violently against the glass, the 
wind howling dismally, and the sea roaring louder than 
ever. She stood on tiptoe, and reached up her hand as 
high as possible, but the lamps were too far above her. 
If she stood on a chair she thought she might just reach 
them. She ran down stairs and quickly returned with one, 
upon which she mounted, but still she must be several 
inches higher before her object could be attained. She 
now fetched a large tin basin, this turned bottom upwards 
she placed upon the chair. It would be all right now she 
thought — she must be high enough to reach the lamps. 
But she had forgotten that she must be able to reach to 
the top of the wick — and for this, even the basin added 
to the chair did not sufficiently raise her. So now she 
fetched a pillow which she placed between the basin and 
the chair ; but, alas ! still the lamps were out of her reach, 
only a couple of inches more and she would succeed in 
her attempt. 

She was a resolute little girl. The thought that on her 
exertions the lives of many depended had made her for 
the time almost forget her own troubles, and nerved her to 


268 


The Watchers on the Lohgships, 

an energy beyond her years. She was determined that 
the lamps should be lighted. Nothing daunted by her 
want of success hitherto she would persevere. How 
pleased her father would be when he knew that she had 
lighted the lamps, to find that she was able to perform his 
duty for him. How it would gladden his heart to see the 
light shedding its clear friendly rays over the wild rough 
sea, for by that he would know that she was safe and well, 
and that vessels were still being warned of the perils which 
awaited them on that dangerous coast. 

Again she descended to the room below to look for some 
other articles to pile on the chair. She searched every- 
where, but she could find nothing that would do. She 
began to despair. Because she could not raise herself a 
couple of inches higher it seemed as if the lamps would 
not be lit, and many brave men be doomed to a watery 
grave. Then her eye fell on the large Family Bible which 
still lay open on the table. She closed it. Ah ! that, she 
said to herself, would make her just high enough. With 
it she could dispense with the pillow. But to stand upon 
the Bible ! She could never do that. Her mother had always 
taught her to treat the sacred volume with extreme rever- 
ence. It was scrupulously dusted twice a day. No article, 
not even another book, was ever allowed to be placed upon 
it ; to stand on it, therefore, seemed to her like sacrilege. 
For several minutes she reflected what course to pursue. 
Then she knelt down, and, resting her head upon the holy 
Book, prayed God to direct her, and show her what He 
would have her to do. When she rose from her knees all 
hesitation had vanished. Her standing on the book could 
do it no harm ; she knew she did not mean to treat it with 
disrespect ; she was sure God would forgive her, for by 
using it in this way she might save the lives of many poor 
sailors, as well as give a sign to her father and friends 


The Little Watcher, 


269 

\s 

ashore that she was not only alive and well, but able, too, 
though alone and unassisted, to perform the most import- 
ant of a lighthouse-keeper’s duties. 

The Bible was heavier to carry than either the chair or 
the basin had been, and the little maiden was quite out of 
breath when she reached the top of the staircase. Now 
she set bravely to work : confidence in her success gave 
her fresh energy. The Bible was placed on the chair, and 
over it the basin, upon which Mary climbed, not without 
some difficulty, and now she found to her great delight 
that she could easily light the lamps. They were all 
ready trimmed, as her father had done that early in the 
morning. She went down again and fetched the small lan- 
tern and matches kept to light the lamps, and then mount- 
ing again on the Bible she began her work. This took a 
long time to accomplish, for over and over again she had 
to get down from the chair and move it round, as one after 
the other she put her match to the different lamps. But 
she had the satisfaction of seeing , how they all burned up 
brightly, and sent their cheerful beams over the mass of 
raging waves which beat against the lighthouse on every 
side. And then her work being finished, she carefully took 
down the big Bible from the chair, and bore it to its accus- 
tomed place on the shelf below. Then she made up a 
bright fire, and sat down beside it weary and exhausted. 
Her anxiety about her father had made her forget her own 
wants ; she had not tasted a morsel since morning ; but 
now the cravings of hunger made themselves felt. With 
tears trickling down her cheeks as she ate her supper, she 
thought how sad it was to be here all alone ; the food she 
so greatly needed strengthened her; she seemed to gain 
fresh courage to perform the great and noble duty which 
God had confided to her, and felt more able to trust herself 
and her father to the tender care of the all-merciful 
Saviour, 


2/0 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

The storm was increasing in violence every hour. The 
strong building shook and trembled as wave after wave 
broke over it. Mary went up again to the cupola; the 
lights were burning brightly, but the spray had so dimmed 
the glass which surrounded the lanterns that she could 
scarcely see through them. Every now and then a huge 
wave would roll sheer over the lighthouse, completely cov- 
ering it for several seconds. The wind, as it rose and fell 
in fitful gusts, howled and moaned fearfully, while rain and 
hail descended in pelting showers. What a night it was to 
be exposed to the pitiless ragings of the elements ! 
Her heart ached for the poor sailors in their ships ; hard 
as her lot was, she was safer and better off than they 
were. 

She went down again and sat before the fire — it was the 
only cheering object around her. She tried not to be afraid, 
but she could not help shuddering now and then when a 
wave, with a roar like thunder, came rolling up, and the 
whole weight of the Atlantic seemed to crash against the 
granite walls of the building. Then this terrible deafening 
noise from below ; it was, indeed, enough to drive any one 
mad who did not know what caused it. She thought that 
even Christian, in the “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” couldn’t have 
heard more dreadful sounds when he passed through the 
valley of the shadow of death. Even the cat, now her only 
companion, generally so placid, had become restless, ran to 
and fro, and mewed as if frightened by the terrific noise. 
Mary took her on her lap, trying to soothe her by her 
caresses. There had not been such a storm as this since she 
and her father had come out to the lighthouse. She was 
very tired, not only from her unusual exertions, but from 
the anxious excitement she had suffered during the day. 
She determined to go to bed — in spite of all this noise she 
thought she must soon fall asleep. But, first, she took up 


The Little Watcher. 


271 


the Bible again, and, with the winds and waves with deafen- 
ing sound raging around her, she read from the ninety-third 
Psalm, ‘‘The floods have lifted up, O Lord,' the floods have 
lifted up their voice ; the floods lift up their waves. The 
Lord on high is mightier than the voice of many waters, 
yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.’’ Yes, He, her 
Father in heaven, was mightier, stronger than even these 
huge billows, which every minute were dashing against her 
lonely prison-house. And He who had placed her there to 
do a work for Him would certainly protect her from every 
danger. She knelt down and said her prayers, committing 
herself to. God’s care, and praying him to bless and watch 
over her dear father, wherever he might be, and “ to guard 
the sailors tossing on the deep blue sea,” and, with the winds 
still howling in savage fury around her, with the wild waves 
lifting up their giant crests, and dashing in a thunder-like 
roar against the lighthouse walls, she sunk into quiet 
slumber, “pure and light,” God’s precious gift to the young 
and innocent. 

There let us leave her and return to the shore. When 
Nichols and his companions had safely secured their un- 
happy prisoner they turned homeward to Sennen, and 
betook themselves to the ale-house, feeling that, after their 
struggles and exertions, they needed some refreshment. 

, They had, moreover, to consult together as to the best 
measures which were to be taken to further their iniquitous 
designs. They felt sure that the lamps on the Longships 
would not burn to-night, and their plan was to display false 
lights on the shore, which, moving about from place to 
place, would appear as if they were the lights of vessels, 
and thus lure mariners on the rocks. 

“We have had good luck,” said Nichols, as he sat down 
at the table and called for some grog, “ though we’d trouble 
enough with the fellow, I’m sore and bruised from the 


2/2 The Watchers on the Longships, 

blows and kicks he gave me, yet weVe secured him at last, 
and there’ll be no lamps lighted to-night.” . 

“And the weather, too, is just what weVe wanted all 
along,” said another man. 

“ It couldn’t be better,” said Nichols ; “ the wind’s rising 
rapidly ; it’ll blow a tremendous gale from the southwest 
to-night.” 

“ Yes, seldom have I seen so much shipping about as 
there is now,” returned his nephew\ 

“ We’re sure of one prize, if not of several,” said another. 

“ I believe even if the light did burn some of ’em would 
be driven on shore.” 

“ And as it won’t, a great many will fall into our clutches,” 
remarked Nichols. 

They sat drinking and talking for about an hour, then 
their leader suggested they had better be on the lookout 
now. It was already quite dark. 

“ What a dirty night ! ” exclaimed the first man who went 
to the door ; “ we’ve had nothing like it this winter ! ” 

“ All the better for us,” replied the others. 

“Get the horse ready, Bill,” said Nichols, “and bring 
him here at once, but don’t light the lantern till we get out 
on the cliffs, in case we should come across the parson or 
the coast-guard.” 

Their plan was to fix the lantern on the animal’s neck, he • 
was then led slowly about along the coast, to imitate the 
motion of a ship on the water. They waited a few minutes 
till Bill Nichols came back with the horse, then all started 
off in the direction of the Land’s End, whence they had the 
best view of the sea. 

As soon as they reached the first rising ground whence 
the Longships could be seen all suddenly started and 
stood still, as if thunderstruck. For a minute or two no 
one uttered a word, Then a volley of oaths and curses 


The L ittle Watcher. 


273 


proceeded from Nichols, which were speedily re-echoed by 
his companions. 

Who would have thought it ? That child has man- 
aged to light the lamps, and there they are burning as 
brightly as ever. Well, we’re done after all,” said one of 
the party. 

Who’d have thought it, indeed ? ” exclairned Nichols. 
“ If it had ever entered my head that the girl would have 
been up to those tricks I’d have rowed out in Tresilian’s 
boat, carried her off from the lighthouse, and locked her up 
with her father ; and now here’s all my fine plan spoiled by 
this wretched little brat.” 

“ And there’s no getting at her now,” said one of the men. 

‘‘Of course not, Tom. This gale may last a week, and 
as long as it does, no boat can get to the lighthouse. 
There’s no doubt we’re thoroughly floored, but we must 
make the best of it. On such a night as this, even with the 
lamps burning, it’s likely enough some vessel will be driven 
on shore.” 

Ben was the only one of the party who was not alto- 
gether sorry at the turn events had taken. All the after- 
noon the fate of the poor little child, alone on the rock, 
cruelly robbed of her parent and protector, had haunted 
him. When, however, he saw the lights, he knew she was 
not frightened to death ; to do such a deed she must possess 
spirit and courage beyond her years. This he hoped would 
sustain her. Not prepared altogether to break with his old 
associates, he still continued to follow the men as they 
wandered along the cliffs in search of plunder. 

Arthur Pendrean had latterly been much occupied. Dick 
Evans’ illness had taken up nearly all his time, and great 
was his joy when at last his care and watching, by God’s 
mercy, seemed to be bearing fruit, and Dick, though still 
very weak, was beginning to get about a little. 


274 Watchers on the Longships. 

Arthur often thought of his friends in the lighthouse, he 
rejoiced in the long 'spell of fine weather, which would make 
their sojourn there more endurable, and was cheered when' 
he got good news of them occasionally. 

When this afternoon such a sudden change came on, and 
he perceived every indication of a violent gale, he deter- 
mined to ride down to the shore in the evening, for he 
always liked to satisfy himself on these occasions that the 
light was burning, and, if possible, to prevent the wreckers 
from any attempt to ply their old trade. 

Through wind, storm, drifting rain and sleet, he rode 
down to the Land’s End. He saw the light burning as 
usual, though every now and then it would be completely 
hidden, as the waves swept over the building. 

He breathed a silent prayer for the safety of its brave 
guardians, little thinking that one was a prisoner on shore, 
scarcely a stone’s throw from where he stood, and that the 
other was left alone, a solitary little watcher on that storm- 
buffeted rock. The lights which here and there might be 
seen tossing on the wild expanse of angry ocean showed 
him how many vessels were about that night — they, indeed, 
would profit by the friendly beacon on the Longships Rock. 
At last his scheme, to which he had devoted many anxious 
hours, bade fair to be a permanent success. He had much 
then to be thankful for. He felt that his work had not 
been altogether in vain among these people, for had he not 
seen some fruit of his labor. Dick Evans’ return, his 
change of life, and, he trusted, of heart too, cheered him 
more than anything that had occurred since his ordination. 
Many of the men who formerly treated him churlishly 
and roughly had become more civil in their manner, and 
thus were more accessible to friendly admonitions or re- 
bukes. Among these he reckoned Ben Pollard, whom he 
had accosted once or twice since Christmas Day, and with 


The Little Watcher._ 


275 


whose altered manner he had been so favorably im- 
pressed. 

Much, indeed, still remained to be done, of this he was 
only too. sadly reminded when he heard voices not far oif 
from him ; he could distinguish nothing but oaths and 
curses, levelled, as he could pretty well imagine, against 
those who had helped to build the lighthouse and kept the 
lamps burning. At some little distance along the cliffs he 
perceived the glimmer of a moving light, indicating from 
whence the voices came. He knew now that wreckers 
were about; he would pursue them and if possible frus- 
trate their plans. He turned his horse in the direction of 
the light but it had disappeared. He rode some way along 
the cliffs in the darkness but not a voice did he hear. The 
wreckers, ever cautious, had observed him. They had, 
therefore, extinguished their lamp, tied their horse up 
against a shrub, and scrambled themselves half-way down 
the cliff, taking refuge in a safe hiding-place, known only 
to themselves. 

Arthur was obliged to give up the pursuit and return 
home. 


2/6 


The Watchefs on the Longships. 


CHAPTER XX. 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

“ Children of God ! and each as he is straying 
Lights on his fellow with a soft surprise, 

Hearkens perchance, the whisper of his praying 
Catches the human answer of his eyes.” 

— F. W. Myers. 

“ ‘ Courage ! ’ he said, and pointed to the land, 

‘ This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.’ ” 

— Tennyson. 

Philip and his friend Marriott were detained as prisoners 
in the Island of Martinique. They were not harshly 
treated, and were allowed a certain amount of liberty; 
this captivity nevertheless was very irksome to both, they 
longed to be once more under their own flag, and often 
wondered if the wished-for day would ever dawn when 
they should again behold the white cliffs of dear old 
England. 

The French authorities had hoped to effect an exchange 
of prisoners without sending the officers and crew of the 
Redoubtable back to Europe, but when, after the lapse 
of several months, no opportunity for this had offered 
itself, they decided to put the captives on board one of 
their own vessels bound for France. Once there all diffi- 
culty of arranging for an exchange of prisoners would be 
at an end. 

Accordingly, early in the year, Philip, Tom, and the rest 
of the prisoners were conveyed on board a small frigate, 


Homeward Bound. 


277 


which, immediately after, in company with several other 
vessels of the French fleet, set sail "for Europe. The Eng- 
lishmen were all crowded together in the dark, narrow hold, 
and very wretched was their condition ; none of them, 
however, complained, for they knew that the voyage once 
over there was every prospect of regaining their liberty. 

A very warm friendship had sprung up between Philip 
Tresilian and Tom Marriott. Already they were the marks 
for the sneers and mockery of the other prisoners, for they 
neither swore, gambled, nor got drunk, and more than 
once Philip had been overheard reading the Bible to his 
companion. 

Crowded together as they now were, they had to listen 
to and endure much which caused them deep pain and sor- 
row ; for many of the men would blaspheme against religion 
on purpose to annoy the two ‘‘ Methodists,’’ as they were 
called. 

Once or twice, indeed, the two young men had remon- 
strated with their fellows and spoke out boldly in their 
Master’s cause, but this had only drawn down upon them 
increased persecution and annoyance. They could do 
nothing then but meekly bear it, and rejoice that they were 
counted worthy to suffer shame for the sake of Him whom 
they humbly endeavored to serve and follow. 

It was a long, tedious voyage. For many days they lay 
becalmed, and then the wind that blew was so light it 
scarcely moved the sails. 

‘‘^re you not weary of this, Phil?” said Tom one day. 
“ We shall never get to Europe at this rate.” 

It doesn’t look like it, Tom, but we must make the 
best of it ; we’re on our way there, slow and sure, perhaps, 
but we’ll get there at last,” replied Philip. 

‘‘ I’m thinking,” said Tom, that after all this calm we 
shall have some dirty weather shortly, and bad, as it is now. 


2/8 The Waic/icrs on the Longships. 

it’ll be worse for us then. The vessel is overladen, I know ; 
look how low she is in the water. WeVe not only all these 
prisoners on board but numbers of invalided Frenchmen, 
both soldiers and sailors; and from the little 1 have ob- 
served of their goings-on during this fine weather I don’t 
think the crew would be good for much in a storm.” 

“ Neither do I,” answered Philip; “they are as awkward 
a set of lubbers as ever I saw.” 

“ And if a gale of wind came on we should all probably 
go to the bottom,” remarked Tom, gravely. 

“ God preserve us from that ! ” said Philip. “ After 
having guarded us in so many dangers He surely will not 
suffer us to perish now.” 

“ Well, we’re in His hands, Phil, and I hope we’re neither 
of us afraid to die, if He wills it, though I should like to 
see old England once more,” said Tom. “ But come, don’t 
let’s be fretting over what hasn’t happened yet, and perhaps 
never will ; the weather’s fine, and we’ll hope it’ll last so. 
I trust, when we get to France, we shan’t be kept long in 
prison there, but be exchanged soon.” 

“Oh, no fear of that, Tom,” said Philip, “There are a 
great many more French prisoners in England than Eng- 
lish prisoners in France, and our country’ll only be too glad 
to get us back again and be rid of the Frenchmen, who are 
only an expense to keep.” 

“True enough,” said Tom; “oh! how glad I shall be 
when this voyage is over.” 

A couple of days after this conversation the weather did 
change, a strong and favorable breeze sprang up, and they 
now began to make rapid progress, but the English pris- 
oners observed how heavily the vessel labored, and were 
more and more convinced of the danger to which they 
must be exposed in case it came on to blow a gale of wind. 
Still, notwithstanding their fears, Philip and Tom were 


Horneivard Boimd, 279 

buoyed up with fresh hopes as each moment seemed to 
bring them nearer to their home. In three or four days 
now they surely would see the shores of France. 

But the wind blew fiercer than ever from the west, and 
though it was a fair one, the frigate made a great deal of 
water ; day and night the men had to work at the pumps. 
Of this the prisoners had more than their share, but hard 
as they labored there' was no doubt that the water was 
gaining ground in the hold. Some of the more exper- 
ienced seamen among the English captives asserted posi- 
tively that the vessel was taking a wrong course, being too 
much to the northward, and that probably several days be- 
fore they expected to sight the French coast they would 
find themselves among some of the dangerous rocks or 
shoals which fringe the western shores of England. One 
man had been bold enough to make this representation to 
the captain, who went into a furious passion at an English 
prisoner presuming to question his knowledge and seaman- 
ship, and the course was pursued without alteration, while 
the English prisoners were made to work harder than ever 
at the pumps. 

It had been a very stormy day. The wind was stronger 
and the waves higher than they had been during the whole 
voyage. The frigate rolled heavily from side to side, and 
incessant labor at the pumps was ineffectual to prevent the 
rapid rising of the water in the hold. The captain and 
officers were evidently anxious, the crew alarmed and 
excited, so that orders were not so punctually obeyed as 
hitherto, and discipline was becoming relaxed. Tom and 
Philip were working at the same pump, they had had 
scarcely a moment^s rest since dawn that morning. 

What do you think of it now, Tom ? ’’ said Philip. 

‘‘Why, with. a good ship, and well manned, there’d be no 
danger at all, but in this old tub, and with such a set of in- 


28 o The Watchers on the Longships, 

capable fellows for sailors, there’s little if any chance for 
us,” replied Tom. 

“ I’m afraid you’re about right there, Tom,” said Philip. 
“ Well, we must make the best of it, but it’ll be hard and 
sad indeed for me not to see my father and sister once 
more, and when we seem so near home, too.” 

We must try and keep up our courage, Phil,” said Tom, 
in a more cheerful tone ; “ we won’t give up all for lost 
yet. There’s no telling what may happen after all. Mean- 
while we’ll work hard and do our duty, and leave the rest 
to God. He’ll do what’s best for both of us.” 

Yes, Tom, I know He will,” said Philip. “ Ah ! how 
often He has saved my life when there seemed but little 
chance for me. I won’t despair even now, or give up my 
trust in him.” 

That’s right, Phil,” said Tom ; then shading his eyes 
with his left h^nd he gazed intently over to the eastward, 
in which direction the vessel was sailing. 

After a moment’s silence he exclaimed — “ It must be, I 
can’t be \\Tong ! look you, Phil, out yonder, that dark line 
on the horizon, isn’t it land } ” 

Philip strained his eyes in the direction to which his 
companion pointed, and plainly enough he saw not only a 
line of coast, but black specks, too, which were evidently 
rocks or islands. 

“ Sure enough, Tom, there’s no doubt about it, I can see 
the breakers now, but that’s not the French coast surely. 
I believe Jim Cox was right when he told the captain the 
other day that he was altogether out of his reckoning, and 
that that’s our own Cornish coast, and not far from the 
Land’s End.” 

“ I always thought Cox was right, Phil,” said Tom, ‘‘ and 
the captain wrong ; and if that is the Cornish coast, with 
such a gale as we’re likely to have to-night, there’s not 
much hope for the ship or for any on board of her.” 


Honiczvard Boimid, 


281 

^‘What’s to be done, Tom ? ’’ asked Philip; ‘^hadn’t we 
better tell the captain ? ” 

“ He ought to have seen it himself ere this, and we shall 
get little thanks for our pains by giving him any informa- 
tion.’' 

Tom now called the attention of the other English pris- 
oners to the land ahead. All agreed that it must be the 
Cornish coast. Meanwhile it had been observed by the 
captain and officers, and had caused no little excitement 
among them. The captain hurried into his cabin, charts 
were spread out on the table, which were eagerly consulted. 
There was no doubt that. this was neither the Norman nor 
the Breton coast ; it must, therefore, be some region with 
which they were totally unacquainted. With a gale rising, 
and a leaky, unmanageable, overloaded ship, their prospects 
were gloomy, indeed. And now the crew had discovered 
the danger, and all came crowding round the captain’s 
cabin, wildly gesticulating, loudly disputing with each other, 
and demanding to be told what coast this was, to which the 
strong wind was urging their vessel. 

The captain seemed bewildered and nearly distracted. 
He gave orders for the vessel’s course to be altered to bear 
more to the southward ; but as the gale was blowing from 
the southwest this was no easy matter. Then he ordered 
all the sails to be furled, but still the frigate was carried 
heavily and slowly on by the violence of the storm. 

Complete anarchy reigned on board the frigate. The 
captain was at his wits’ end. The English prisoners profited 
by the confusion to regain their liberty, and many ceased 
working at the pumps. One of the officers urged the cap- 
tain to consult the English sailors, who probably knew more 
about the coast than he did, and if they appeared capable 
of command, to give them the complete management of the 
ship, promising their unconditional liberation if they sue- 


282 The Watchers on the Longships, 

ceeded in saving her. Humiliating as this proposal was, 
the captain felt that it was the only chance of saving their 
lives. As to the ship, that must be given up ; for if she 
weathered the storm, she would certainly run aground on 
the English shores, and become a fine prize for the 
enemy. 

The Englishmen were all standing together, gazing at 
the shores of their native land, and speculating as to their 
chance of reaching it, when the captain came up to them. 
After hearing his proposal, they consulted together for a 
while. They were too few in number to undertake the sole 
management of so large a vessel under such critical circum- 
stances, and very little dependence could be placed on the 
French crew rendering them any material aid. However, 
as nothing could be worse than the present state of affairs ; 
as liberty, and large profit, too, would certainly be their 
reward if they succeeded in bringing the vessel safe into an 
English harbor, they promised to do their best. The cap- 
tain ordered his own men to obey the Englishmen’s orders, 
and the ablest and most experienced seaman among them 
was unanimously chosen to take the command, while all the 
rest promised him implicit obedience. 

They first set to work thoroughly to examine the vessel ; 
the leaks were larger and more numerous than they had 
expected ; in f^ct, the most desperate and persistent work 
at the pumps would be necessary to prevent the ship from 
foundering. All the cargo, ammunition, and heavy guns 
were immediately thrown overboard. The masts were next 
cut down, and like a huge hulk the frigate rode on the 
foaming waves. Every effort was made to keep her head 
to the wind. Their only hope was in delay ; for should the 
wind abate they might with difficulty get the vessel into 
some near port ; but if the storm continued, they must in- 
evitably be driven on the rocks, or perhaps sink before they 


Homeward Bound. 


283 

reached them. Night came on. The sailors now perceived 
ahead of them a bright and steady light, which seemed to 
be burning on the. shore, though every now and then it 
would be hidden for a few moments. What could this light 
be ? None of them knew. As they stood together on the 
poop, debating about it, Philip exclaimed, “ I believe it is 
the lighthouse on the Longships Rock, just off the Land’s 
End ; it was just finished when I was pressed for the fleet 
at Sennen Cove last spring.” 

“You belong to Cornwall, then, do you?” said the man 
who had been chosen as captain. 

“Yes, and I’m very much mistaken if we’re not off the 
Land’s End now.” 

“ That’s what I’ve thought all along ; and there’s no good 
anchorage about there, is there ? ” 

“No; rocks bristle all round the coast; and in dark 
winter nights, and with heavy gales blowing, scores of ships 
are wrecked there.” 

“ That doesn’t look as if there was much hope for us, 
then,” replied the man, gravely ; “ are the people who live 
in the village on the shore likely to give us any assistance, 
think you ? ” 

“I wish I could say so,” replied Philip; “on the con- 
trary, they will most likely do all they can to cause our 
destruction. Some of the worst wreckers on the coast 
dwell thereabouts, and, though I belong to the place. my- 
self, I must confess that they’re a terrible rough lot.” 

“ This isn’t very cheering news you give us, lad,” said 
the man who had been chosen captain ; “ besides, it strikes 
me the wind is still rising, and a very dirty night we shall 
have of it. If we can only ride out the storm till daylight 
the gale may fall in the morning, but even then, with a ship 
in such a state as ours is, I don’t see much hope for us.” 

“ We’re not drifting so fast towards the shore as we were 


284 The Watc/icrs on the Lougships. 

before, and Bill Stokes has just told me the water is lower 
in the hold,” said Tom, hopefully. 

‘‘ And wehe still some way off from the shore, which is 
all in our favor,” said the captain. 

It was a terrific night. The fierce wind howled and 
roared, huge waves every now and then swept the decks, 
and the men, for self-preservation, had to lash themselves 
on to the capstans, to the remains of the masts, or to the 
gunwale, otherwise they would have been borne away into 
the foaming wilderness of waters which swirled in the 
pitchy darkness around them. The frigate’s timbers 
creaked and groaned incessantly as she was beaten and 
buffeted by the furious billows. The French captain and 
his officials maintained their calmness and presence of 
mind, and did all in their power to assist the Englishmen, 
into whose hands they had entrusted their vessel, but many 
of the crew, overcome by fear, hid themselves between 
decks and in the cabins, where they crouched trembling 
together. They refused to work, and, indeed, they seemed 
incapable of doing anything. Some of them were blacks 
who had been hastily pressed into the service of the fleet 
at Martinique, and others were landsmen who had had no 
previous experience of a sea-faring life. 

The long-wished-for dawn appeared at last, but the wind 
did not fall as many had hoped. They were certainly 
nearer to the rock-bound coast than they were the night 
before. Notwithstanding all their efforts they were slowly 
but surely being driven to destruction. 

Bravely and nobly had the Englishmen worked that 
night. Not one of them had even thought of taking an 
instant’s repose. Pale and exhausted with all these exer- 
tions, and from exposure to this terrific gale, but still 
undaunted and determined to battle with the storm to the 
very last, morning found them resolutely standing at their 
several posts. 


Homeward Bound. 


285 


The French captain, full of admiration for their heroic 
efforts, ordered food — such as there was — to be liberally 
served out to them. 

Tom and Philip were again standing side by side. 
“ What do you think of it now, Tom ? ” said the latter. 

“ Ah ! lad, I can’t see any chance at all for us. The 
Lord, of course, can deliver us if He wills, but it seems to 
me He must almost work a miracle to do it.” 

“ It’ll be hard to perish just within sight of my own home, 
Tom, won’t it ? ” said Philip, in a choking voice ; “with my 
father and sister so near to me. Maybe they’ve given me 
up for dead already, but if my body should be washed on 
shore, close to my native village, it would, indeed, be a ter- 
rible blow for my poor father.” 

Tom couldn’t speak for a minute or two. His heart 
ached for his poor friend. 

“Cheer up, Philip,” he said, at last; “the Lord has 
delivered you from many dangers, and perhaps He’ll save 
us after all. Whatever betide, we can thank Him for allow- 
ing us to be together ; if He means us to sink together 
into a watery grave, it’ll be some comfort to be side by 
side, to be able to say a word to cheer each other when 
the last dark hour comes.” 

“ Ah ! yes, Tom, indeed it will ; however dark the cloud 
is, I’ve heard it said, there’s some gleam of light in it, even 
though we mayn’t see it.” 

A giant wave, which came sweeping over the deck and 
made every plank and timber of the ship quiver, inter- 
rupted their conversation. Then their duties separated 
them. Tom was called to the helm and Philip' went to 
work again at the pumps. 

The water in the hold was rapidly rising now, and the 
English seaman who had taken command ordered all 
hands that could be spared to the pumps — even the French 


286 The Watchers on the Longships. 

officers, to set their men an example, took their turn at the 
work, but all these combined efforts proved unavailing, for 
still the water gained ground. 

That day, the dawn of which all on board had so ardently 
longed for, brought to them no ray of hope or comfort. 
Dark and gloomy clouds obscured the sky, fierce winds in 
violent gusts swept over the gray turbid mass of angry 
ocean ; drenching showers of rain and hail ever and anon 
came pelting down and mingled themselves with the clouds 
of flying spray and foam, while before them frowned the 
dark rocky shores which bade them no welcome, and held 
out no hope of safety and rest after their toilsome and dan- . 
gerous voyage, but rather threatened them with terrible 
destruction, with a cold and watery grave. 

Hour after hour as they watched these cliffs and the 
rocks which studded the sea around, rendered more con- 
spicuous by the white fringe of snowy foam which, as each 
wave dashed against them, rose and fell in clouds of 
feathery spray, they saw how surely they were, in spite of 
all their efforts, being driven on to this iron-bound and in-* 
hospitable coast. Nothing now but a change of wind 
could save them. There was no abatement in the violence 
of the gale ; the most experienced and sanguine mariner 
could detect no sign of any probable alteration in the 
weather. 

Such was their condition when the shades of evening 
again fell on the foaming wilderness of angry ocean around 
them, while the only cheering object which met their gaze 
was the light burning at the Longships. The building 
itself was now distinctly visible, though completely hidden 
every now and then by the large waves that swept 
ovef it. 

Who was the watcher there ? Philip often wondered if 
it was some one he knew, one of his fellow-villagers ; could 


Homeward Bound, 


287 


it be his own father who had taken the post ? Well, who- 
ever it was, he must have a brave, bold heart to live out 
there encircled by the fierce seas and roaring tempests, and 
a noble work he was doing in keeping that lamp burning. 
Even to the hearts of these buffeted despairing seamen it 
sent a faint gleam of hope. It told them that there was 
some one there on that lonely rock, one generous human 
heart, at all events, watching them, hoping — perhaps 
praying — for their deliverance. 

Philip, who was well acquainted with every rock and 
shoal, creek and bay around the coast, was very useful in 
affording information to the sailor in command. As the 
vessel, unless the wind* fell or changed within a very few 
hours, must inevitably be driven on shore, he wished if 
possible that this catastrophe should take place where there 
might be some chance of their lives being saved. 

This Philip told him could only be close to Sennen Cove, 
but in such a gale as this, he added, and without any assist- 
ance from the land (for he could hold out no hope of that), 
he thought there was barely a chance of any of the crew 
getting safe to shore. They would under any circumstances 
go to pieces too far off for it to be possible in such a surf 
for any man to swim on shore, and even those who clung 
to pieces of the wreck would be almost certain to have the 
life beaten out of them before they reached the land. 

Had it not been for that light and what you have told 
me,’’ said the man, “I should have let the ship now drive 
on straight ahead.” 

‘‘ Then we should have been dashed to pieces in an in- 
stant, far away from the shore,” said Philip; ^‘just here 
all the sea bristles with rocks ; there isn’t a worse place all 
round the coast.” 

“ The further to the north we can keep her the better, 
then, I suppose,” said the captain. 


288 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


‘‘Yes/’ replied Philip; “but even if we were to run 
aground near Sennen Cove I don’t see much room for 
hope, though, as I said before, it’s the best place.” 

“ Bad’s the best, then,” said the sailor, gloomily ; “ but 
we’ll do what we can, and work away to the last.” 


A Memorable Sunday, 


289 


* 


CHAPTER XXL 

A MEMORABLE SUNDAY. 

“ Come Thou, O come, 

Glorious and shadow free, 

Star of the stormy sea, 

Light of the tempest-tost. 

Harbor, our souls to save. 

When hope upon the wave 
Is lost.” 

— G. Moultrie. 

The warrior from his armed tent. 

The seaman from the tide. 

Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent 
In Christian nations wide ; 

Thousands and tens of thousands bring 
Their sorrows to His shrine, 

And taste the never-failing spring 
Of Jesus’ love divine.” 

—Lyra Sacra.- 

It was long after dawn when Mary awoke next morning. 
Her ears were greeted with the howling of the wind, the 
dull thunder-like sound of the roaring waves, the myste- 
rious noises from the cavern below ; she rubbed her eyes 
and looked round her, expecting to see her father as 
usual moving about cleaning the lamps or getting his nets 
ready for a day’s fishing. It was not till after the lapse 
of several minutes that the terrible events of yesterday 
flashed back through her memory, and she suddenly 
realized the utter loneliness, as well as the responsibility 
of her situation. 


290 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

The uncertainty as to her father’s fate weighed heavily on 
he^ mind. She burst into tears and lay sobbing for some 
time. Then the brave little lass got up and dressed herself, 
and after saying her morning prayer, she felt calmer and 
better able to bear the hard cross and burden which God 
in His infinite wisdom had seen fit to lay upon her. 

It was her father who generally lighted the fire and got 
the breakfast ready, but to-day she must do it, and she set 
to work at once. , She had to go down to the storeroom 
below to get some wood and coal's, and there the noise from 
the horrid cavern beneath sounded louder and more ter- 
rible than she had ever heard it yet. She shuddered as 
she listened to it, and was glad enough when she found 
herself in the more cheerful room above. After breakfast 
she took down the big Bible. She read again the beautiful 
story in St. Mark’s gospel about the storm on the Sea of 
Galilee, and how Jesus came to his disciples walking on the 
sea, and said unto them, “ Be of good cheer, it is I, be not 
afraid.” She, too, must try not to be afraid, for though she 
could not see Him walking on the sea, as his disciples had 
done, she knew He was nevertheless as near to her now as 
He then was to them. Afterwards she turned to the 
Psalms where last night she had found so much comfort, 
and opened at the sixty-second ; to her present distress and 
trouble these words seemed to be specially suited, “ He 
only is my rock and my salvation : He is my defence ; I 
shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory : 
the rock of my strength and my refuge is in God. Trust 
in him at all times ; ye people, pour out your heart before 
Him : God is a refuge for us.” Cheered by these words, 
she put down the Bible. She felt she was not placed there 
to be idle. She must do the work her father would have 
done had he been in the lighthouse. The lamps would 
have to be taken out, cleaned, trimmed, and fresh oil put 


A Memorable Sunday. 


291 


in. She had seen him do this every morning,' for her it 
would be a long and tiresome business, but she must do 
her best. She went up to the lantern ; here she found that 
a great quantity of water had come in, and one of the large 
strong panes of glass had been cracked by the violence of 
the waves. . 

Fortunately, no harm had been done to the lamps. Now 
she had to carry up the chair, the pillow, and the large 
Bible, so as to be able to reach the lamps and take them 
out to clean them. One by one she removed them ; and 
when she had got them all down stairs in the room below, 
she had no easy task to polish the reflectors and trim the 
wicks. Then she had to go to the storeroom again to fetch 
the oil to replenish the lamps. This work so occupied her 
time that she paid little heed to the noise of the storm, 
which raged with continued vehemence around her, and 
seemed to shake the building to its very foundation. After 
she had put all the lamps back in their places, and had 
brought down the Bible again, she sat down by the fire, 
feeling quite tired after this unusual exertion. 

Suddenly she remembered it was Sunday. On the 
morning of that day she was accustomed to read a great 
part of the church service to her father, as well as the 
Psalms and Lessons. To be a Sunday all alone out here 
without him was sad, indeed. She took down the 
Prayer-book and Bible with a sigh, and began to read 
as usual. It was the ninth day of the month, and from the 
46th Psalm she derived fresh comfort and strength to bear 
her solitary burden : ‘‘ God is our hope and strength, a very 
present help in trouble : therefore, will we not fear, though 
the earth be moved, and though the hills be carried into 
the midst of the sea. Though the waters thereof rage and 
swell, and though the mountains shake at the tempest of 
the same/’ 


292 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

Truly, indeed, did the waters rage and swell around her, 
and the strong granite walls which protected her from them 
did shake and tremble at the tempest of the same ; but 
with the Lord of Hosts to protect her, the God of Jacob as 
her refuge, she would trust and not be afraid. Were they 
not praying for her, too, in the church at home on shore } 
She wondered whether the parson knew where her father 
was, and realized her lonely position. But she was sure, at 
all events, he would not forget her and her father in his 
prayers. When, too, in the Litany, she came to the peti- 
tion : That it may please Thee to succor, help, and com- 
fort all that are in danger, necessity, and tribulation,” she 
felt that she surely was included in those words. How 
many good people, then, who were that day using that 
prayer would, though unconsciously to themselves, be ask- 
ing God to help and comfort her ? 

She was glad that it was Sunday now. These thoughts 
seemed to give her fresh strength and courage to bear what- 
ever might be in store for her. The reading of the service, 
too, occupied a great deal of time, and so absorbed her 
attention that she hardly noticed the sounds which accom- 
panied the wild strife of the elements around her. 

After dinner, before she sat down to read the afternoon 
service, she went up to the cupola to gaze over the 
storm-tossed waters, and to see if there were any signs of 
the tempest abating. But the sky was dark and cloudy as 
ever ; the huge waves every now and then leaped over the 
lighthouse, burying it in foam and surf, while the rain and 
hail at intervals descended in torrents. 

There were not so many vessels about to-day as yesterday, 
most of them had succeeded in reaching some port or shel- 
tered anchorage ; but she observed one large ship whith 
certainly was not there on the previous afternoon. Its 
masts must have been carried away by the fury of the 


A Meniomhle Sunday, 


293 


storm, or purposely cut down by the crew. It rolled and 
labored heavily in the turbulent sea ; sometimes it seemed 
almost buried in the waves, and Mary trembled when she 
thought it had really foundered ; but then it appeared 
again, feebly trying to battle with the storm. Even she 
could see how unmanageable this huge ship was, and that 
unless the gale very suddenly fell it must become a wreck. 
This was a sad sight, indeed. Here she was powerless to 
help; for however brightly the lamps burned they could 
not assist this large vessel to escape from that destruction 
which seemed to be certainly in store for it. 

For a long time she watched the doomed ship. Then she 
went down again, sadder than ever, to read the evening 
service, and to pray for these poor men who were strug- 
gling so bravely with the storm, and to whom death seemed 
very near. Their hard fate almost made her forget her 
own troubles ; she could think now of nothing else. How 
she longed to be able to do something to help them in their 
sore distress ! 

She went up to her labor of love earlier than on the 
previous evening, hoping that the bright light might cheer 
them a little, for it must tell them that some one was near 
to sympathize with and pray for them. When she gazed 
out for the last time through the gloomy mist and blinding 
surf she could just discern the vessel much nearer than 
when she first saw it ; it seemed to have been carried, too, 
more to the north. Perhaps it would be driven on shore 
near Sennen Cove. 

She remembered, some years ago, that two vessels had 
been wrecked there, and how cruelly the men had behaved 
to the poor passengers and crew, whom they had refused to 
aid, so that all had perished in the waters. She thought 
that if her father were at the Cove now he would do all he 
could to help to save their lives. Perhaps that was the 


294 Watchers on the Lougships. 

reason why God had kept him on shore ; if so, she must 
not complain, but rather rejoice. 

Wearied and exhausted she lay down to rest that night. 
Her heart ached at the thought of those poor fellows in 
that large ill-fated ship ; she wondered how many there 
were, — ptobably passengers as well as crew, — perhaps 
women and children like herself on board. Again, before 
she closed her eyes, she commended them to the care and 
protection of the one great Father in Heaven, and she 
thought that the winds were not howling quite so fiercely, 
nor the waves dashing quite so furiously against the light- 
house walls as they had done during the course of the day. 
Perhaps God was going to answer her prayer and save that 
ship. With this gleam of hope in her heart she fell asleep. 

The wreckers had been signally unsuccessful the pre- 
vious night. They had gone along the coast for some 
distance, dragged their horse with his lantern backwards 
and forwards along the cliffs but all to no avail. Although 
there was so much shipping about, and the gale continued 
to blow as fiercely as ever, not a single vessel — thanks 
chiefly to the Longships light, but partly, perhaps, to good 
seamanship — was lured by their false lights upon the 
shore. 

It may be well imagined, therefore, with what feelings 
this lawless gang returned baffled and disappointed to the 
village. Nichols was furious. He swore he would be 
revenged some day on the hated young parson, and 
heaped curses on his head. Then he bitterly reproached 
himself for leaving little Mary Tresilian in the lighthouse ; 
it was she who had done all the mischief by lighting the 
lamps. He only wished he had kidnapped her as well as 
her father. 

The men tried to drown their ill-humor and disgust in a 
carouse at the ale-house, and agreed that if the gale still 


A Memorable Sunday. 


295 


continued they would make another attempt that night ; 
they had a faint hope that the child might be frightened or 
tired out, and not be able to light the lamps again. 

“ Where’s Ben } ” said Nichols suddenly, when he per- 
ceived he was no longer of the party. 

“Oh, he turned into his cottage,” replied one of the 
men. 

“ Sneaked off, has he ? ” observed Nichols angrily ; 
“ he’s not been himself the last few days. He listens too 
much to what his wife says, or maybe the parson’s got hold 
of him. I say, chaps, you must all look sharp or he’ll be 
playing us ’ false ; I don’t trust him as I used to do after 
several things he has said to me lately.” 

“ He didn’t half like our kidnapping Tresilian,” said one 
of the men ; “do you remember how he stood out against 
your plan, John t ” 

“Yes, of course I do,” said Nichols ; “if Ben proves a 
traitor, woe betide him ! and, uttering an oath, he struck 
his clenched fist upon the table with such force that it 
made the whole room shake. 

Of all the party who were out wrecking that night Ben 
was the most wretched. Willing enough as he was to do a 
dishonest action, and bad as his past career had been, this 
last exploit of Nichols was too base and cruel even for him, 
sunk as he was in evil, to sanction. Then, too, strangely 
enough, the words which the parson had spoken to him on 
Christmas Eve had made a very deep impression on his 
" mind, though he did not like to confess it, added to which 
were his wife’s constant complaints and entreaties that he 
would lead a steadier life. When, therefore, as day was 
dawning on that Sunday morning, they returned, weary 
and out of heart, from their unsuccessful expedition, Ben, 
without saying a word to his companions, turned into his 
own dwelling as he passed it. He paid no heed tg his 


296 The Watc/icrs on the Longships, 

wife’s reproaches, but sat down by the cold, empty hearth, 
silent and gloomy. A struggle was going on within him 
almost as fierce as that of the raging elements outside his 
cottage. He had nearly made up his mind that Owen 
should not spend another night in that prison. Should he 
go and release him at once, or should he inforni'the parson 
of what had happened. In either case, when Nichols 
knew that Owen was at liberty he would naturally lay his 
release at his door ; that would draw down his vengeance 
upon him, and with it the ill-will of all his former asso- 
ciates in the village. How would he be able to bear that 
It w^ould be hard enough, but not so bad as to feel that he 
had helped to murder a man who had never done him any 
harm, for if Owen were starved to death in that cave (which 
Nichols plainly had wished) Ben felt that he would have 
been an accessory to his death. Then, when he looked at 
his own children, he thought of the poor little girl left quite 
alone in the lighthouse in that fearful gale. A brave little 
lass, too, as the very fact of her having lighted the lamps 
last night testified ! These latter considerations decided 
him. He would go and release Owen, but he must be 
cautious, choose his opportunity, and avoid Nichols. Not 
at present, certainly, for when he looked out of the window 
he saw too many of his own set about returning from the 
ale-house. He must wait. 

That Sunday, which was ushered in with so fierce a tem- 
pest, was ever after looked back upon as a memorable day 
in the annals of the Cornish fishing village. A very dark 
day, indeed, it was in its calendar. Arthur Pendrean had 
ridden home the previous evening with somewhat mixed 
feelings ; he had been cheered to see the lamps burning 
brightly, but was sad at heart when he thought that a gang 
of his parishioners were still plying their old wicked trade 
with too fatal success, he feared, on so dark a night, and 


A Memorable Sunday. 


297 


during, so fierce a gale. Before he retired to rest he had a 
long talk with Dick ; he was better and stronger now, and 
hoped to go to church to-morrow, and there publicly re- 
turn thanks to God for his preservation, safe return, and 
recovery from his late severe illness. 

On Sunday morning, Arthur, anxious to learn what dis- 
asters might have been caused by the storm during the 
night, started rather earlier than usual for Sennen. On 
his way he met David Abbott coming to meet him. Stop- 
ping his horse, he asked — ‘‘ Any news, Abbott } Has the 
storm done much mischief ? 

“ There hasn’t been such a gale, sir, since the lighthouse 
has been built. Poor Owen and his daughter must have 
felt it terribly, but the lights have burned just as usual 
notwithstanding, and the building stands firm and safe as 
ever. I’ve just been up to look at it.” 

‘‘Thank God, Abbott, I’m glad, indeed, to hear it, but 
have you heard of any wrecks ? ” 

“ Not one, sir,” he replied ; “ and those wrecker chaps, 
Nichols, Pollard, and all the rest of ’em, started off as 
soon as it got dark with a horse and a lantern after their 
old pranks, but they came back about four o’clock this 
morning, having got nothing for their pains, and putting it 
all down to you and the lighthouse. They were in a rage, 
there’s no mistake.” 

“ I think, David, they’re not far wrong about the light- 
house ; by God’s blessing it was, I trust, the means of 
saving many lives last night.” 

“And it’ll save many more, I hope, sir,” said Abbott ; 
“ but what I’ve come to tell you is that we’ve seen a large 
vessel, dismasted, rolling very heavily, and evidently in 
distress, just off the Longships. We can’t make out what 
she is ; maybe a foreigner ; it strikes me her crew can’t 
manage her, and that she’ll be a wreck afore nightfall.” 


2gS TJic Watchers on the Longships, 

“This is bad news, though, Abbott. Can’t we render 
any help ? ” 

“ Impossible, sir, no boat could put out in such a gale ; 
the wind is blowing harder than ever. I am afraid she 
must go on shore and be a perfect wreck. The only hope 
is that when she does, we may save a few lives.” 

“We must all do our best in that case. You’ll keep a 
sharp lookout, Abbott, all day ; have the boats ready in 
case the wind should drop, and be sure to let me know 
when the vessel strikes, though God grant that she may be 
saved ! After morning service I’ll be down on the beach 
— meet me there.” 

“All right, sir,” said Abbott, as he turned back to 
Sennen. 

Before going to church Arthur had time to ride to the 
Land’s End to look at the ship in distress. He perceived 
at once that Abbott’s report had by no means been exag- 
gerated, and that she was in imminent peril if the gale did 
not very speedily abate. The chances of saving life de- 
pended, he knew, entirely on the spot where she struck 
the land ; if any of the men on board were acquainted 
with the coast it was possible that with skilful seamanship 
she might run on shore near Sennen Cove, and in that 
case efforts could be made to help the poor fellows strug- 
gling for their lives in the surf. He turned back towards 
the church, his heart aching for the crew and passengers 
of this evidently doomed ship. 

All noticed the grave, anxious look on his face when 
he commenced the service. Notwithstanding the rough 
weather, the church was well filled. The good folk round 
about were well seasoned to storm and rain, and were too 
much attached to their pastor and to the services of the 
church to allow any but the most urgent cause to prevent 
them from coming to God’s house on His day. Dick 


A Memorable Sunday, 


299 


Evans was there, just under the reading-desk, looking 
pale and thin and much muffled up ; a neighbor had given 
him a lift in his cart, for the weather was too bad for him 
to walk in his present weak state. 

Before the litany the parson asked the prayers of his 
congregation for the crew and passengers of a vessel in dis- 
tress close to the shore, and after the petition “ for all that 
travel by land or by water, he paused for few moments, 
and there was a solemn silence throughout the building. 
Then, before the general thanksgiving, he gave out that 
“ Richard Evans desires to offer up praise to Almighty 
God for great and special mercies received,” and when he 
read the words, ‘‘ particularly to him who desires now to 
offer up his praise and thanksgivings for Thy late mercies 
vouchsafed unto Ijim,” Dick could hardly restrain his tears, 
and when the 103d Psalm, commencing, 

‘‘ My soul inspired by sacred love, 

God’s holy name forever bless, 

Of all His favors mindfiil prove, 

And still thy grateful thanks express ; 

’Tis He that all Thy sins forgives. 

And after sickness makes thee sound, 

From danger He thy life retrieves, 

By Him with grace and mercy crowned,” 

was given out he was still more overcome, for he felt how 
exactly suitable the words were to his case. 

The parson took for his text John xv. 13, “ Greater love 
hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for 
his friends.” 

Many then present afterguards asserted that never had 
their good parson spoken so earnestly and lovingly as he 
did on that occasion. He preached to them in simple 
words of the great love of God the Father towards lost 
mankind, of the infinite condescension of the Divine Son 
in coming down from heaven to live, suffer, and at last to 


300 TJie Watc/icrs on the LongsJiips, 

die for the sake of poor lost , ruined men, whom He even 
condescended to call His friends in spite of the ingratitude 
and hard-heartedness which so many of them showed to- 
wards Him. He spoke, as he was ever wont, of the will- 
ingness of our blessed Lord to receive and welcome sinners 
of even the darkest dye who with deep penitence implored 
His forgiveness. Then he urged them to endeavor to fol- 
low the example which their Saviour had set before them, 
by living a life of self-denial and self-sacrifice for the good 
of others. And he contrasted such a life as this with that 
led by many people in the village, whose desire seemed to 
be rather to destroy life than to save it, who throve and 
prospered not by their honest labor, but by the sorrows 
and misfortunes of others. He thanked God that many 
of those now present had abandoned their evil ways, and 
he thanked Him, too, for having in His mercy allowed the 
lighthouse to be built, which he felt sure had been instru- 
mental in saving many a gallant ship during last night’s 
tempest. He asked his flock to remember in their prayers 
the father and daughter who had left a comfortable home 
to go and live on the rock, that God might protect and 
bless them in the exercise of their lonely duty ; but above 
all, he urged them to pray for the poor fellows on board 
the large ship buffeted by the merciless winds and waves 
so near to the shore. It seemed, indeed, he said, as they 
listened to the winds howling round the church, and the 
hail and rain beating against the window panes, and to the 
distant roar of the angry ocean,, that there could be no 
hope for them ; but God was all-powerful. He could de- 
liver them though all seemed lost to human eyes. He 
would not turn a deaf ear to the prayers they offered up 
for their poor perishing fellow-creatures. But to pray for 
them, he solemnly reminded his people, was not the only 
duty of strong men in an emergency like this, they must 


A Memorable Sunday. 


301 


work for them, too. Whether Englishmen or foreigners 
they were still their brothers, for ‘‘ God has made of one 
blood all the nations of the earth ; ” they all were children 
of the one great Father, redeemed by the same loving 
Saviour ; let every man then present do all in his power 
that day to aid in saving the lives of the passengers and 
crew, boldly risking his own if need be in so noble a cause, 
battling like a hero with sea and surf, and proving himself 
worthy of the grand name of Englishman. If their county 
had won to itself an ill repute by the evil deeds of its 
inhabitants, let them now forever retrieve its character, 
and show that Cornishmen were no longer backward in 
deeds of courage, pluck, and self-denial, and would never 
allow shipwrecked men to perish off their coast without 
holding out a brave and helping hand to save' them. 

The parson was pleased when he saw several of the 
fishermen remain to the holy communion which followed 
the sermon, and was struck by their reverent manner. 
Again, in the prayer for the church militant, he paused 
after the words : ‘‘ We most humbly beseech Thee of Thy 
goodness, O Lord, comfort and succor all them, who in 
this transitory life are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or 
any other adversity ; ” and all remember in their prayers 
the storm-tossed ship hurrying to destruction. Little did 
Arthur think then how two of his flock very sorely needed 
the prayers of the church — both in solitude, separated 
from each other by the designs of cruel men, and both in 
much sorrow and adversity. Owen and Mary were, indeed, 
present to his mind, and included in his prayers, but he 
imagined them together as usual, trying to cheer each other 
during the raging tempest, and happy in the thought that 
they were aiding some tempest-tossed mariners to gain in 
safety the long-desired haven. 

It was a very solemn service. All present seemed more 


302 The Watchers on the Longships. 

deeply impressed than usual ; there was, indeed, much to 
produce such an effect. Little did any of them, however, 
think that to one present it was the Last Communion, and 
that sorrow and bereavement was soon to fill their hearts. 

The parson found Abbott waiting in the porch after ser- 
vice was over. He told him the ship was still laboring 
heavily in the sea ; she was making way rather to the north- 
ward, which made him think that there was some one on 
board acquainted with the coast, who, perceiving that ship- 
wreck was inevitable, hoped to get the vessel to strike where 
there would be more chance of life being saved if she went 
to pieces. He said that he and others were sure, from the 
build and general appearance of the ship, that she was a 
foreign, probably a French frigate. He informed Arthur 
that Nichols and the other wreckers who had been so bit- 
terly disappointed the previous evening were all now in 
high glee, hoping to profit by the impending disaster. 

‘‘ We must do all in our power to defeat their evil de- 
signs,” said Arthur. “ How long do you think it will be 
before the vessel strikes ? ” 

“ I can’t say. I’m sure, sir ; but it won’t be yet a while. 
All depends on the wind and tide,” said Abbott. 

“Well, I’ve to go over to service to St. Levan this after- 
noon ; but I hope to be back here soon after four o’clock. 
I should be sorry not to be on the spot to give all the help 
I can,” said Arthur. 

“ I don’t think she’ll run ashore before nightfall, sir ; it’s 
pretty certain you’ll be in time,” said Abbott, as Arthur 
galloped off in the direction of St. Levan. 

We left Owen Tresilian overcome with fatigue and ex- 
haustion, asleep in his dark, damp prison. He slept long 
and heavily. When he awoke and looked round on the 
gray dripping walls of his dungeon, it was a few ‘minutes 
before he realized his situation — ere the events of the 


A Memorable Sunday. 


303 


previous day flashed upon his memory. Then he uttered 
a groan of anguish, covered Ifls face with his hands, his 
strong frame shook with emotion, and the tears trickled 
down his weather-beaten cheeks. Surely God must have 
utterly forsaken him, else why should he be left here 
to perish while his darling child, his only treasure, was 
alone and unprotected in that storm-beaten lighthouse. 
O that he knew whether the light had burned last night ! 
Were it not for the great rock that stood just before the 
entrance of the cavern he would have been able to see. 
How long would it be the pleasure of his dastardly enemies 
to keep him here ^ Was it their intention really to starve 
him to death ? He got up, but he was so stiff, both with 
the cold and from the bruises he had received yesterday, 
that he could scarcely stand erect. He staggered up to 
the gate, and, putting forth all his strength, again shook it 
violently, but it yielded not an inch ; it was firmly barred, 
bolted, and padlocked. He sat down again in despair. 

The gale did not appear to have abated in the least ; the 
winds were still howling around the shore, and whistling as 
they penetrated with chilly blast into his prison ; the waves 
were roaring louder than ever and dashing with fury against 
the rocks close by him. If the light had not burned, and 
he did not think that Mary would have had presence of 
mind to light the lamps, even if she could reach them, how 
many wrecks there must have been during the night ! What 
would the parson think when he saw no beacon ! Doubt- 
less he would set to work at once to find out the reason of 
the calamity ; and he was so -clever that perhaps he would 
guess the cause, and discover the wicked plot which had 
made him, the keeper, a prisoner, and cruelly condemned 
his daughter to be left alone on that terrible rock. When 
he thought, too, how many were concerned in the conspiracy, 
he hoped that one among them might be touched and 


304 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

relent. So just a ray of hope, faint as it was, shone into 
his desolate heart, and he tried once more to trust in God, 
and when he lifted up his prayer to Him, words Mary 
had read a few days before came back to his memory : 
“ Thou art about my path, and about my bed, and spiest 
out all my ways ; the darkness is not darkness with Thee, 
but the night is as clear as the day; the darkness and 
light to Thee are both alike.” God was present with him, 
then, even in this dark dungeon. He would still trust 
Him, and surely He would deliver him. 

Owen now took out his tinder-box and lighted a match 
to explore his prison. He groped his way to the back part 
of the cavern, which grew narrower as he advanced. It 
seemed intenninable, and he perceived, too, that he was 
rapidly ascending ; the path was so steep that once or twice 
he had to climb with hands and knees. Every now and 
then his match would burn out, and he had to light a fresh 
ohe. Sometimes the winding passage became so low that 
he had to bend almost double to get through, and then it 
would grow wider again. The blasts of the fresh air which 
met him occasionally filled him with hope that this long 
natural tunnel had an exit somewhere on the top of the cliffs ; 
yet if such were the case, the opening would surely be known 
to him, familiar as he was with every inch of ground in that 
neighborhood. Nerved to fresh vigor by this hope, he 
scrambled on, and at last, to his intense joy, he saw in the 
distance the light of day before him ; and after a long 
struggle he found himself at the bottom of a lofty natural 
shaft, like a steep well, the sides jagged and rough, and 
closing in towards the narrow opening at the top. At a 
glance, Owen saw that there was no means of escape here ; 
the pit was too deep, and its sides too precipitous for him 
to attempt to scramble up, still the means of commimicating 
with the outer world were easier, perhaps, here than at the 


A Meuiorable Sunday. 


305 


gate of the cave on the sea-shore. He could call out, and 
he might be heard by some one passing. He sat down 
and gazed at the bit of gray sky, across which clouds 
were rapidly driven by the wind. . That opening he 
reckoned could not be far off from the Landes End, where 
on a stormy day many came from Sennen to look out over 
the sea and watch the homeward-bound vessels. The par- 
son, he knew, frequently, visited the spot ; but when he 
suddenly remembered that it was Sunday he felt there was 
not much chance of rescue that day ; and as the men who 
might be on the lookout would probably be the enemies to 
whom he owed his capture and imprisonment, his best pol- 
icy would be silence. He groped his way back to the cave, 
where he refreshed himself with the dry bread and water 
which had been left him. Then he examined the gate 
again. With his strong knife, and by dint of perseverance, 
he thought it just possible he might cut a hole through it, 
by which to escape. But it would be a long job ; he could 
hardly complete it in a day ; perhaps, after all, he would 
not succeed. However, with God’s help, he would make 
every effort to get out of this dreary prison. 

The wood was far harder than he expected, nevertheless 
he worked on with energy. About noon he finished the 
scanty food his captors had provided for him, and the 
dread of starvation urged him on to labor more vigorously. 
He had already cut two large perpendicular slits in the gate, 
and his next object was to cut two horizontal ones, thus 
making a hole in it large enough for him to crawl through. 
He was just beginning to do this when his knife broke 
off close to the handle, the blade remaining fixed in the 
gate. With a cry of despair he started back. But a 
moment before he had seemed to be so near success, and 
now all his hopes were shattered, and he, and perhaps his 
little daughter, must miserably perish, 


3o6 The Watchers on the Longships, 

The gale blew as fiercely as ever; with a roar like 
thunder, the mighty billows broke upon the shore. Owen 
perceived that another night of storm and tempest was in 
store for his poor child in that lonely lighthouse. The 
thought was intolerable. “ O God, protect my dear child, 
my darling Mary,” he exclaimed, as wringing his hands 
in an agony he fell on his knees in the centre of the cave. 
There for a few moments he knelt motionless, as if rooted 
to the spot. Suddenly he started to his feet. That could 
not be the wind which had shaken the gate and made the 
padlock outside rattle. Then he heard a low voice calling 
out Owen, are you there ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied ; ‘‘ who are you, friend or foe } ” 

“ It’s I, Ben Pollard,” was the reply. I’m come to let 
you out.” 

“You, Ben, come to let me out!” exclaimed Owen. 
“ You’re one of the last men I should have expected to do 
that. Ah 1 I fear it’s only for some worse fate than this — 
are you going to murder me, then ? ” 

“ No, no, Owen,” he replied quickly, but still in a sub- 
dued voice. “ I was never in favor of Nichols’ scheme for 
carrying you off in that cowardly way, and now they don’t 
know that I ’ve come to release you, though some of them 
suspect me, I think, of playing them false, but there’s no 
time for talking about it now. Nichols has got the key of 
the padlock, and the only way I can get you out is to file 
through one of the links of this chain. I may have been 
watched and followed, so there’s no time to lose.’’ 

“Thank God! thank God ! ” cried Owen, “that He has 
put this into your heart, Ben ; but answer me one ques- 
tion — only one : did the light burn last night on the Long- 
ships ? ” 

“Yes, as bright as ever, and didn’t our chaps curse and 
swear when they saw it. Why, it was because they thought 


A Memorable Sunday, 


307 


your daughter wouldn’t be able to light it that they kid- 
napped you, and we’ve got nothing for our pains. We were 
out all last night — and there wasn’t a single wreck, and 
precious down in the mouth were the whole lot of us when 
we got back to Sennen this morning.” 

When Owen heard this good news he could scarcely utter 
a word, his heart was so full of joy and of gratitude to God. 
He had heard his prayer, then. He had not only protected 
his child, but given her strength and courage to light the 
lamps. How she had managed it he could not think ! And 
now, in a wonderful and unexpected way, by means of the 
man he looked upon as his enemy, the Lord was about to 
deliver him from this dungeon just at the moment when 
all hope seemed to have vanished and he was utterly over- 
whelmed with despair. 

‘‘ Ah ! you couldn’t have brought me better news than 
this, Ben,” said Owen at last ; ‘‘ my poor child is safe, then, 
though she’s left there alone. God be praised for His 
mercy.” 

“ It’s a thick chain this to file through,” said Ben, im- 
patiently, but so long as those chaps don’t get scent of 
where I am it’ll be all right, though it’s a longer job than 
I expected.” 

Ben had been watching all day for an opportunity to run 
down to the cave and release Owen, but v it was not till late 
in the afternoon that he saw any chance of escaping unper- 
ceived. 

The French frigate, which was evidently now being driven 
rapidly on the shore, had caused an intense excitement 
throughout the village ; all the men had hurried down to 
the beach. When Ben saw them pass his cottage he guessed 
there must be a wreck, and now, he reflected, was the time 
for him to carry out his intention. His absence from the 
shore would certainly be noticed by Nichols and his com- 


3o8 The Watchers on the Longships. 

panions, but they were hardly likely to leave the chance of 
booty which a wreck afforded to follow him, even if they 
suspected the errand on which he had started. 

He had left his cottage unperceived, and was already out 
of the village, when, to his annoyance and disgust, he met 
Nichols’ hopeful nephew running along the road in the 
direction of the shore. As he passed him he called out. 
Make haste. Bill, or you’ll be too late.” 

The young fellow, however, stopped, and said, “Ain’t 
you coming, too, Ben ? wherever are you going off to ? ” 

“ No business of yours. Bill ; I’ll be down on the beach 
presently,” said Ben, as he hastened on. 

Young Nichols gazed suspiciously after him. He felt 
half inclined to follow Ben, for he knew his uncle’s sus- 
picions about him, but the immediate prospect of plunder 
outweighed in his mind any profit he might gain by ob- 
taining proof positive that Pollard was a traitor, so he 
hurried on. 

It was this meeting with Bill Nichols that made Ben so 
eager to effect Owen’s immediate release. He filed on in 
silence as rapidly as he could till at last the link was 
separated. The chain and padlock fell to the ground, and 
Owen Tresilian was once more a free man. 

With deepest gratitude he warmly grasped Ben’s hand. 
“You’ve been a true friend to me, Ben; I shall never be 
able to repay you for this,” he said ; and then he darted 
round the rock which stood at the entrance of the cave so 
that he might gaze out to sea, and behold the building 
which contained all he held most dear in this world. 

It was quite dusk now, and the cheering light burned 
bright as ever on the Longships Rock. This was more 
than he had expected, for he had forgotten that the hour 
for lighting up had already arrived. Mary, then, was still 
safe, still intent on her duty. He fell on his knees on the 


A Memorable Sunday. 309 

seashore and once again poured out his heart in fervent 
thanksgiving to that gracious Father who was so mercifully 
watching over his beloved child, and who had just so won- 
derfully delivered him out of the dark cavern. 

Ben, rough as he was, was touched when he witnessed 
Owen’s deep gratitude to God and his tender attachment 
to the child from whom he had been so cruelly torn. He 
did not repent now of the action he had just performed. 
He had felt misgivings about it all along. He had even 
been inclined to turn back after he met Bill Nichols, but 
now he was glad he had rescued Owen, and indifferent to 
what Nichols and the rest of them might say or do to him 
in consequence. 


The Watcher's on the Lojigships. 


j 


lO 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE WRECK A NOBLE SELF-SACRIFICE. 

** Alone upon the leaping billows, lo ! 

What fearful image works its way ? a ship ! 

Shapeless and wild. . . . 

Her sails dishevelled and her massive form 
Disfigured, but tremendously sublime : 

Prowless and helmless through the waves she rocks 
And writhes as if in agony ! like her 
Who to the last avail o’er starving foes. 

Sinks with a bloody struggle into death, — 

The vessel combats with the battling waves 
Then finally dives below ! the thunders toll 
Her requiem, and whirlwinds howl for joy.” — Crabbe. 

Gave his pure soul unto his Captain, Christ, 

Under whose colors he had fought so long.” 

— Shakespeare. 

A LONG and weary day had that been for all on board the 
ill-fated French frigate. The English sailors had worked 
bravely and perseveringly, and the French officer# had 
done their best to help them, but so far as any hope of 
saving the ship existed their efforts all saw must be un- 
availing. The gale blew as fiercely as ever, the water was 
rising rapidly in the hold. The vessel must become a 
wreck, and the only hope was the bare possibility of reach- 
ing land by swimming or clinging to broken pieces of the 
wreck. When at evening the light again shone forth from 
the Longships they were close to the shore, laboring 
heavily, the decks constantly swept by the huge billows. 
In a very short time their fate would be decided j the frig- 


The Wreck. 


311 

ate must strike soon, unless she foundered before they 
touched the land. 

The French officers, brought up in the school of 
Voltaire and Rousseau, disciples of a philosophy which 
teaches that there is no future state, and that at the 
moment of death all is over and the soul ceases to exist, 
endeavored to meet their fate with calm indifference, and 
glanced with a sneer of contempt at some of the crew, who, 
although they too had cast off their religion in days of 
prosperity, now, when death stared them in the face, 
began to remember the simple lessons taught them at their 
mothers^ knees, and the solemn words of their parish 
priests, which they had heard in church before priests 
were proscribed and churches shut by order of the re- 
publican government. Many of these poor fellows were 
praying and crossing themselves devoutly, and repeating, ^ 
as far as they could remember, the Paternoster and the Ave 
Maria. With clasped hands some called on God to save 
them, imploring His pardon for their sins. 

The English sailors continued for the most part to work 
at the pumps, but many, alas ! as is so often the case on 
such occasions, when they saw that all hope of saving the 
ship had disappeared, obtained access to the spirit-room 
and gave themselves up to a drunken carouse, defying the 
Almighty and cursing the storm which was hurrying them 
into eternity. 

Tom Marriott and Philip Tresilian again stood together 
on the poop. They alone of all on board were able to meet/ 
the sad fate which threatened them with composure. 

^Ht can’t last much longer, Tom,” said the latter; 

we’re almost among the rocks now, it strikes me. If 
we’re* only driven around that point and strike there, 
there’s just a bare chance that the lives of some of us may 
be saved.” 


5 12 The Watchers on the Longships. 

You know all this coast well, then, Philip,” said Tom. 

‘‘ Know it, Tom ! why, I’ve lived here all my life. It’s 
only that high cliff you see just there that hides the 
cottage where I was born, and where I hope my father and 
sister are still living and praying for me, too. Little do 
they think how near I am to them. Ah ! Tom, it’s hard 
indeed to die now ; would I had fallen in the battle along 
with our good friend Forster.” 

“ Don’t say so, Phil,” replied Tom ; “ God knows what’s 
best for us, and chooses the right time and way for us to 
die. We mustn’t repine at His will. Let’s try and lift 
up our hearts to Him whom we are so soon to see face to 
face, and ask Him to give us grace and strength to honor 
Him by dying bravely.” 

‘‘You’re right, Tom,” said Philip, in a voice choked by 
emotion ; “ He’s never forsaken me yet, and I’m sure He 
won’t now; I’ll try and trust Him still. ‘Yea, though I 
walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear 
no evil : for Thou art with me ; Thy rod and Thy staff they 
comfort me.’ ” 

“Yes, and with us through the dark river, too, that 
you were telling me about last Sunday, Philip, out of the 
book called ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress,’ that you said you had 
read at home, and poor Forster used to be so fond of talk- 
ing about.” 

At that moment a terrible wave, like a huge mountain of 
white surf, rolled over the frigate ; every beam and timber 
creaked and shook ; the awe-struck crew thought it was all 
over now, but again the vessel rose to the surface, driven 
some way nearer the shore, and towards the point which 
Philip hoped they might gain. 

“ I didn’t think the old ship would have stood thah 
Tom,” said Philip, after the wave had passed. 

“She won’t survive another such,” replied Tom ; “she’ll 
either go down or be dashed against the rocks,” 


The Wreck. 


3^3 


How close we are to the land now ; don’t you see the 
lights on the shore, Tom ? ” 

‘‘Yes, I expect there are plenty of folks on the lookout 
for us there.” 

“ Most of ’em, I’m afraid, on the lookout for plunder, 
though if our parson’s there I know he’ll do all he can to 
try and save our lives.” 

“Well, lad,” said Tom, “I’ve pretty well made up my 
mind there’s little hope of any of our lives being saved, the 
waves are so big, and there’s such a terrific swell along this 
coast — but I wish our poor fellows were better prepared to 
die. How sad it is to see how drunk many of them are, 
and to listen to their vile oaths at such a time as the 
present ! ” 

“ Ah ! Tom, we must pray for them as well as for our- 
selves. God grant them time for repentance ! ” 

“ God bless you, lad ! ” said Tom, as he put his hand on 
Philip’s shoulder ; “ How can we thank Him enough for 
bringing us together, and now it seems as if we were to go 
across the dark river side by side ; doesn’t it, Phil ? ” 

Philip did not reply, for his eyes were fixed on the shore. 
There was a sudden lull in the storm just then, and the 
vessel, borne rapidly by the force of the waves, had rounded 
the point, and now the small white houses of Sennen Cove, 
clustering down to the beach, came into view. It was his 
own dear home Philip, saw, and he was wondering if his 
father and sister were still there, and if at that moment 
they ‘were thinking of him. 

“ There it is, Tom, there it is — the cottage where I was 
born — where my mother died — where ” 

He could not finish the sentence. Another wave, more 
gigantic than the preceding one, rolled over the frigate ; 
and carried her on with irresistible force towards the 
shore. 


314 Watchers on the Longships. 

And now the sea demanded its first victims, for several 
of the crew, lashed as they were to the ship, were torn 
away by the violence of the wave and borne into the raging 
waters, beneath which they immediately disappeared. 

Drenched and almost blinded by the surf, Tom and 
Philip were some minutes before they could see each other ; 
each thought his companion had perished. 

“ Thank God, Philip, you are still there ! ’’ said Tom. 

He had scarcely uttered the words, when there was a 
terrible crash which sounded loudly even above the howl- 
ing of the storm and the roar of the breakers. 

The ship had struck at last. Then came crash after 
crash as wave succeeding wave rolled over the vessel ; her 
timbers parted at once ; the sea was strewn with planks, 
shrouds, cordage, together with hundreds of poor fellows 
struggling hard, but in vain, for dear life in that wild waste 
of waters. 

The bows of the frigate, where Tom and Philip were 
stationed at the moment when she struck, remained raised 
some distance above the water, the forepart of the vessel 
having become firmly wedged in the rock. Hither, there- 
fore, all who could escape crowded, many clinging to the 
bowsprit as the highest portion, and least exposed to the 
waves, which, however, still continued to roll over them. 
All knew that it was only a matter of time. The frail 
remnant of the ship, which was now their last refuge, must 
speedily yield to the repeated shocks of the waves, and then 
they, too, must perish, — and yet they were so near the 
shore. Scarcely a man there but could have swam to land 
if the sea had been tolerably calm. In these days of life- 
boats and appliances for rescuing the shipwrecked not 
one of those poor seamen need have been lost. They 
could see the lights on the shore and figures hurrying 
along the beach. Would they make any efforts to save 


The Wreck, 




them ? Were there any brave hearts on that barren shore 
who would risk their lives for poor shipwrecked strangers ? 

Never, perhaps, had greater excitement reigned at Sen- 
nen village and Cove than on that afternoon and evening. 
All who could — men, women, even children — had hurried 
down to the beach. Some, hard, cruel, unrelenting, were 
bent alone on plunder ; they had not the slightest sympa- 
pathy for the poor fellows on board the frigate ; others, on 
the contrary, were filled with compassion for their unhappy 
fellow-creatures, and longed to be able to render them as- 
sistance, consulting together as to what could be done, and 
determining to use every means in their power to save life. 
It was a motley group collected on the beach. There were 
the rough fishermen of Sennen and the villages on ‘the 
seaboard around ; there were the uncouth miners from St. 
Just and Pendeen, some of whom had hastened thither 
from no good motives; others, whose lives had been 
changed by the preaching of the gospel by John Wesley 
and his followers, had come to render what aid they could 
to the shipwrecked crew ; there were farmers, too, and their 
laborers from inland ; but the most conspicuous and ener- 
getic figure in the crowd, as he passed quickly from one to 
the other, here encouraging the brave workers, there warn- 
ing those intent only on plunder, was Arthur Pendrean ; 
his tall, manly figure now galloping on his horse along the 
road, now striding on foot up and down the beach, seemed 
to be everywhere at once. Nothing escaped him ; he saw 
how Nichols and his companions at one end of the strand 
were plotting together how best to secure their booty. He 
was indifferent to the looks of defiance they cast at him. 
Since no words of kindness or persuasion could touch 
their hearts he was determined to use every means to baffle 
their schemes. Strong ropes were at hand to throw to any 
drowning man who might be cast near enough to the shore 


3i6 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

to make use of them ; and everything that could be thought 
of as likely to save life or restore consciousness had been 
prepared by the brave young parson. 

The frigate had been driven round the point. When the 
crowd on the beach saw the first huge wave roll over her 
they raised a half-suppressed cry of anguish, concluding 
that all was over with the ill-fated ship, but when again she 
emerged from the foaming surge, to renew her terrible but 
unequal conflict with the fierce seas, all breathed more 
freely, while exclamations of relief and thankfulness arose 
from many breasts. But at that moment a fresh excite- 
ment occurred, which for the time actually drew away the 
attention of nearly all those assembled on the beach from 
the object which till then had so entirely absorbed it. 
Two men were pushing their way through the crowd up 
to the parson, whose eyes were so intently fixed upon the 
frigate that, until one of them pulled him by the sleeve 
and called him by name, he did not observe them. When, 
however, he turned round and looked the man who ad- 
dressed him in the face he started back with a look of 
utter amazement, not unmingled with terror, his face be- 
came deadly pale, and he exclaimed, — 

“ Owen ! can it be you ? What brought you here ? and 
Mary — and the lighthouse ! Am I dreaming ? 

His astonishment was shared by the rest of the crowd, 
who regarded Owen as one risen from the dead. “ How 
could he have come here ? was the question on every 
tongue ; for there was the light burning, and it had burned 
last night, too ; and how, in such a tempest as this could 
Tresilian, except by a miracle, have left the lighthouse ? 
One group of watchers on the beach, of whom Nichols was 
the ringleader, could have solved this mystery ; they, per- 
ceiving some fresh excitement, had approached the spot 
where the parson was standing and had at once recognized 
Owen Tresilian and Ben Pollard. 


The Wreck. 


317 


told you how it would be, uncle,” said Bill. I was 
sure Ben would play us false ; he was after no good when 
I met him on the road this afternoon.” 

Nichols, trembling in every limb with passion and resent- 
ment towards Ben Pollard, and uttering fearful oaths and 
curses, rushed through the crowd with the intention of lev- 
elling a terrible blow at the head of his former friend, when 
the parson, aware of his intention, seized him by the arm, 
and hurled him away with such force that he. fell back on 
the ground. In a moment he was on his legs again , and 
this time had he not been dragged away by his compan- 
ions would have aimed a blow at Arthur. 

“You shall repent this day as long as you live, Ben,” he 
said, as he cast a look of deadly hatred on Pollard ; “and 
as to you, cursed parson. I’ll be even with you yet.” 

Taking no further notice of him, Arthur now turned 
eagerly to Ben and Owen. 

“ What is all this, Owen ? ” he said. “ Explain the mys- 
tery ; I am quite unable to understand it.” 

In a few words, and as quickly as possible, Owen related 
to the parson the events of the last two days. 

“Ah ! sir,” he said at the end, “if I had only listened to 
your advice, and not taken my boat with me to the light- 
house, this would never have happened. Oh ! how my 
heart aches when I think of my dear little one all alone on 
that dreary rock in this terrible gale ; and when will it ever 
abate } when shall I be able to see her again ? She ^till 
lives, I know, for the light burns ; but how long will she be 
able to bear that solitude ? O God ! O God ! watch over 
her and protect her ! ” 

“Bad and heartless as I knew your enemies were,” said 
Arthur, “ I did not think they would have gone so far as 
this. As for you, Pollard,” he added, grasping Ben’s hand, 
and shaking it warmly, “ never mind the threats of evil 


3i8 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

men ; God will bring all their plots to naught. You have 
acted bravely and rightly in this matter and have nothing 
to fear.’’ 

Then turning to Owen, he said : 

“ Poor little Mary ! I do, indeed, feel for her ; but what a 
brave heart and what courage she has shown in lighting 
those lamps as she has done now for two nights ! Never 
fear, Owen. God, who has given her strength so far, will 
surely continue to support her. It is her firm faith and 
trust in Him which has enabled her to bear up and do her 
duty in that lonely prison. The gale can’t last much 
longer ; and even if we are not able to land on the rock 
we can get near enough to let Mary see us, so that she 
may feel we have not forgotten her.” 

‘‘ Ah, sir ! if we could only do that to-morrow how thank- 
ful I should be,” sighed Owen. 

‘^We shall see; but there’s no more time for talking 
about it now, Owen. Look at the vessel yonder ; how 
rapidly she is being driven in ; she’ll be a wreck in a few 
minutes, and all our thoughts and efforts must be employed 
in trying to save the lives of those on board.” 

Yes, indeed, sir,” said Owen. I’m only too glad that 
I should be here to help ; and Ben, you won’t join the 
wreckers any more, will you ? ” 

‘‘ No, no, Owen ; I mean to stick to you now. I don’t 
think my old companions either would give me much of a 
welcome if I wished to join them.” 

But all further conversation was now arrested, for every 
eye was eagerly turned seaward, watching in the dim twi- 
light the struggles of the ill-fated vessel as she writhed and 
quivered among the mighty breakers, whose plaything she 
had completely become. They could see the poor men on 
board, some i:linging to the sides of the ship or lashed to 
the stumps of the masts ; some running hither and thither, 


The Wreck. 


319 


as if distragted, on the decks ; while as each .great rolling 
wave swept fresh victims into the boiling surge a cry of 
horror arose from almost every breast on the beach. In a 
few moments more the frigate went to pieces, becoming an 
utter wreck before their eyes. They saw the poor fellows 
battling with the waves. Some few, however, remained 
clinging desperately to the bows, or huddled together on 
the forecastle, which still kept above water. Can nothing 
be done to save them ? ” is the question which arises in 
every humane heart on the shore. In such a sea as this is 
it possible for any to survive ? The mighty billows are 
rolling in with majestic grandeur, dashing up their frothy 
crests to heaven — cold, merciless, and powerful ; brave, 
indeed, would be he who dare venture an unequal combat 
with such foes, even when the lives of fellow-creatures are 
at stake. But virtue is bold and goodness never fear- 
ful.” 

Men ! brothers ! ” cried Arthur, “ we mustn’t stand 
here doing nothing while these poor fellows are perishing 
before our eyes. We’ll form a line, hold each other’s 
hands, rope ourselves together, too, and, plunging into the 
sea, we may be able to seize and rescue a few of these 
unhappy men. What do you say to it, Owen ? ” 

I’m willing to try that or any other way, sir, to help em ; 
but I fear the life will be pretty nigh knocked out of ’em 
before they’ll cast up near enough for us to get hold of 
them,” replied Owen. 

‘‘ Come ! with God’s help, let’s set to work at once ; not 
a moment’s to be lost,” said the parson. 

Arthur’s brave example and words of encouragement 
seemed to have an electrical effect on the men around him. 
Even a few who had before been his enemies were now 
eager to join the heroic band of which he was ^le leader. 
The chain was soon formed ; eight men firmly grasped each 


320 The Watchers on the Longships. 

other’s hands, and now all gaze intently on the boiling, turn- 
bling mass -of surge before them : there, beaten about hither 
and thither by the waves, is a dark object almost within 
reach. There is a dash into the sea. Owen has insisted 
on being outermost, next him is Ben, and then the parson. 
Owen, though up to his neck in water, has grasped the 
drowning man. A ringing cheer bursts from the crowd ; 
but the danger is not yet over. Before they have time to 
retreat a huge billow rolls in, buries the whole party in the 
surf, and hurls them with violence upon the beach. Not 
one has relaxed his grasp. Those nearest the shore, less 
exposed than the rest to the force of the waves, pull sturdily, 
so that all are dragged in safely — Owen last, unconscious 
himself, but still clinging to the man he has saved. The 
rescued one, who is evidently a foreigner, and in whom life 
appears to be extinct, is at once taken to a neigboring cot- 
tage, where every preparation has been made for the recep- 
tion of the poor fellows and where restoratives are at once 
administered. 

Owen soon recovered his senses. Again the chain was 
formed. This time Arthur would not allow him to take 
the post of greatest danger, but insisted on assuming it 
himself ; and when some of the men objected he remarked 
that each must take his turn. Now, another splendid dash 
into the sea and another man saved ! This time it was an 
Englishman, and, though stunned and unable to speak, 
there was little doubt but that life was still in him. 

‘‘ Thank God ! ” exclaimed Arthur, as he emerged, ex- 
hausted and breathless, from the water. “ I am proud of 
you, my lads ; you’re acting gallantly now ; you’ll retrieve 
the bad character we’ve got in these parts ; but we must be 
at it again, as long as our strength holds out, and as long 
as there is a man left battling with the waves, we must do 
our best to save him,” 


The Wreck. 


321 


Thus they continued their noble exertions, each taking 
it by turns to advance furthest into the sea, sometimes 
baffled, indeed, but oftener cheered by well-earned success, 
till ten men had been wrested from the angry surf, and 
borne away to the cottages hard by. 

Meanwhile, at the other end of the beach, Nichols and 
his party were almost as desperately battling with the sea, 
their object being to secure barrels, bales, stores of various 
kinds, with which, as soon as the frigate went to pieces, 
the sea was strewn, and which were every now and then 
driven in the direction of the shore. 

After the tenth man had been rescued, Arthur and his 
gallant band were so utterly exhausted that they were 
reluctantly obliged to take a few minutes’ rest, eagerly 
watching meanwhile the remnant of the wreck, which, 
though wave after wave rolled over her, had not yet broken 
up. They could perceive that many of the poor fellows 
who had been clinging to it had been washed away ; cold 
and exposure had deprived them of strength sufflcient to 
hold on. 

Arthur’s heart bled for these unfortunate men ; fervently 
did he pray that they might be rescued yet. O that they 
had more strong arms to aid them ! One thing he per- 
ceived with thankfulness and pleasure — that was, that the 
wind had fallen. The sky was clearer, and the gale had 
evidently spent its fury ; but for some time yet, after such 
a storm, little diminution could be expected in the size and 
force of the waves. How true is it that the most tender- 
hearted ar6 often the most courageous ! Arthur yearned 
so over these poor fellows, foreigners probably, and foes 
of his country, that he felt he could gladly sacrifice his 
own life, were it necessary, to save theirs. He thought of 
the text he had preached from that morning — ‘‘Greater 
love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life 


322 The Watchers on the Longships, 

for his friends.” The image of his dear Lord and Master, 
of His life of love and devotion, of His noble death of 
self-sacrifice, was vividly present to his mind, nerving him 
with fresh courage and energy. These poor men, for 
whom Christ died, must not be allowed to perish if he 
could save them. 

When the gallant band were sufficiently refreshed to 
resume their generous but hazardous work, they could not 
perceive any more victims struggling in the waves ; they 
must all have perished — the life beaten out of them by 
the cruel sea and swallowed up in its depths ; but there 
were still some men on the battered, quivering wreck, and 
to them all efforts must now be directed. 

But an incident occurred which for a moment turned 
away their attention from the wreck. A yell of horror, 
piercing through the thundering roar of the breakers, arose 
from the group of wreckers at the other end of the beach. 
All eyes were immediately turned in the direction whence 
it proceeded. 

Most of the men there, up to their waists in the surf, had 
plainly been making a desperate effort to seize a large dark 
object which a receding wave had just carried away from 
the shore. Dick Evans, who, too weak to join the gallant 
band of rescuers, was on the alert to make himself useful 
in other ways, now ran up to Arthur, and told him that 
one of the men who were employed in wrecking had evi- 
dently been borne off by a wave with the object that he 
he was endeavoring to secure. 

‘‘Whoever he be, he richly deserves his fate,” said one 
of the men standing near Arthur ; “ he ought to have been 
lielping us to save the poor fellows’ lives instead of trying 
to enrich himself.” 

“True enough, my friend,” returned the parson; “but 
for all that we musn’t leave him to perish without an effort 


The Wreck. 


323 


on our part ; ” and he hastened into the midst of the group 
of wreckers. 

They seemed terror-struck ; they had lost all presence of 
mind, and were making no attempt to rescue their com- 
panion, who, clinging to a huge barrel, was being buffeted 
by the waves, and had already been carried some distance 
from the shore. 

Who is it ? ” said Arthur. 

‘^John Nichols,’’ replied one of the men ; he was just 
dragging in that barrel when a wave came and washed 
him away with it.” 

Nichols, indeed ! ” said Arthur, with a deep sigh, while 
an expression of sadness passed over his face. “ I know 
no one here less prepared to meet his God than that man ; 
at all risks let us try and save him. Why didn’t you form 
a chain, men, at once and dash in after him ? ” he asked, 
turning indignantly to the wreckers ; ‘‘ you don’t exert 
yourselves as much to save one of your own fellows as we 
are doing to rescue these foreigners.” 

The men looked ashamed, but they still stood motion- 
less, while Bill Nichols, the greatest coward of the lot, 
sneaked away behind the others. 

Come, Owen,” said Arthur ; I see these cowardly 
fellows won’t move ; we must form a line again here, and 
try what we can do — we’ve no time to lose ; ” and he gazed 
anxiously at the wreck and the poor fellows hanging on 
to it. 

The. attempt was made but proved unsuccessful. The 
surf was too strong and the water too deep for them to 
advance far enough to grasp the drowning man., 

“There is but one means left — a last chance — I will 
try it,” said the heroic parson. “ Dick, bring me my 
horse — quick — not a moment must be lost.” 

Arthur sprang upon the back of the faithful animal. 


324 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

“ What are you going to do, sir ? ” cried Owen and Ben 
together; ‘‘you’re never going to ride into that boiling 
surf, your horse’ll never stand it, sir — indeed, you mustn’t,” 
and both seized his bridle. 

“Let go, both of you — 1 will be obeyed,” cried Arthur, 
in such a tone of command that it compelled submission. 
“ God helping me,” he said, in a calmer voice, “ I will save 
him yet.” 

At first the horse refused to enter the water, but his 
master soon gave the intelligent beast to understand that 
he was to carry him whither he willed, even into the jaws 
of death if needful, and now he plunged into the raging 
breakers. A ringing cheer rose from every man on the 
shore as they beheld this act of bravery. All knew that 
Nichols was the parson’s bitterest enemy; they remem- 
bered the intended blow, the cruel words he had spoken 
against him, and the threats of vengeance he had uttered 
but a few minutes before still rung in their ears. 

Arthur had chosen a fitting moment to advance into the 
surf, when a wave had just receded, and a possibility oc- 
curred of securing the drowning man before another fol- 
lowed. Bravely did his faithful steed second his efforts. 
Though off his feet he swam in the direction to which he 
vvas guided by his master, and Arthur actually succeeded 
iii clutching Nichols by the collar and dragging him back 
apparently lifeless to the shore. It had been a fierce bat- 
tle, and the rescuer, himself terribly exhausted, had to be 
helped off his horse, and laid on the shore for a few min- 
utes to recover himself. So faint and spent was Arthur 
that he almost feared lest he should be unable to continue 
his noble work, of which much more remained to be ac- 
complished. Meanwhile the men had gathered round 
Nichols “ Is he alive ? ” said Arthur, as summoning up his 
strength he arose and bent over the form of his prostrate foe. 


TJlc Wreck. 


32s 


He^s alive, sir,’^ said Owen, ^‘but it strikes me he isnh 
long for this world ; he’s been so battered about by the 
barrel that he would cling to as long as strength was in 
him that I don’t think he’ll ever survive it.” 

It was quite dark now, but one of the men held a lantern 
close to Nichols’ pale face. Arthur took his cold hand in 
his. “ Poor fellow,” he said. “ I fear you’re right, Owen. 
May God have mercy on his soul ! ” 

At this moment the man opened his eyes. When he per- 
ceived that Arthur was bending over him a shudder passed 
through his frame, and he turned away his head and closed 
his eyes. 

‘‘Ah! he knows you, sir,” said Ben, “or he wouldn’t 
look like that.” 

Arthur bent down more closely over the dying man ; he 
whispered a few words in his ear. Again his eyes opened, 
and he looked Arthur full in the face, but this time it was 
with an expression of wonder rather than hatred or fear. 
In a very low voice — almost a whisper — he gasped out 
the words, — 

“You, sir. Was it you . . . who tried to save me ? . . . 
No ; I can’t believe it . . .it must be a dream. . . . But do 
you forgive me, sir ? ” 

“ Forgive you I Yes, Nichols ; indeed I do. Oh ! may 
God forgive you. Pray to Him now. Even at the last 
moment He will hear you.” 

“ Too late, sir, . . . too late,” sighed the dying man. 

“ Never too late to turn to Him if you repent of your 
past wicked life. He died to save you. He will forgive 
you ; only trust Him,” said Arthur, very earnestly. 

Again he turned his eyes full upon Arthur with a sad, 
but almost grateful look. He feebly tried to press the 
parson’s hand, which still held his. Then, with a deep 
groan, he expired. No one spoke a word. Not a sound 


326 TJie Watchers on the Longships. 

was heard but the roar of the ocean. Arthur turned away 
with tears in his eyes. God is long-suffering and merciful. 
“ He willeth not that any should perish, but that all should 
come to repentance.’^ He thought of the penitent thief on 
the cross, and hoped that the soul of even this hardened 
sinner might be cleansed in the blood of Jesus. 

How thickly were the startling incidents of that eventful 
night crowded together ! The parson and his brave band 
now returned to their former post. Still the fore part of 
the frigate remained fixed in the rock where it had struck ; 
still the waves rolled over it, burying in surf the poor fel-' 
lows who clung to the bulwarks ; each succeeding billow 
causing the timbers to quiver and creak more violently. 
Tom and Philip were close together on the • bowsprit. 
When the final crash came, they thought by holding on to 
this they had more chance of being buoyed up, and perhaps 
borne to the shore. As long as the twilight lasted they 
had watched the gallant efforts which had been made by 
the men on shore to save life ; and Tom had remarked, 
“ Ah, Philip ! you gave the folks here a character they 
didn’t deserve ; they seem to be doing all they can to help 
our poor fellows. , I’m sure they’ve dragged some of them 
on shore.” 

‘‘ Yes, I’ve been watching them, Tom and I’ve been 
greatly surprised ; but it must be our parson who’s at the 
bottom of it — it never used to be so — not when I lived 
here.” 

“ I begin to hope God means to save us yet,” said Tom ; 
‘Hhere’s not so much wind as there was and it doesn’t 
look ver}^ far to the shore.” 

I don’t despair either,” said Philip ; ‘‘ life seems dearer 
to me than ever now I’m within a few yards of home. But 
God’s will be done.” 

When the darkness came over them they were no longer 


The Wreck 


327 


able to watch the proceedings of those ashore, but they 
saw the lights passing backwards and forwards on the 
beach, and knew their friends were still as active as ever 
in their elforts to save them. And as the stars, one by one, 
came out they were not a little cheered by their friendly 
rays, which showed them that the dull leaden clouds that 
for so long had hidden the blue sky from their gaze had 
at last passed away, and though the waves rolled as fiercely 
over them, and roared as loud as ever, the wind had alto- 
gether subsided. . ^ 

Arthur perceived that more light had now become need- 
ful for them to keep watch over the remnant of the wreck. ' 
He knew, too, it would cheer those still on^ it, proving to 
them that they were not forgotten by their fellows on shore, 
who were determined at all hazards to save their lives if 
possible. He ordered, therefore, a great tar barrel to be 
fetched from a neighboring store and set alight. When 
the bright red flames blazed up they shone upon a singularly 
weird scene of death, destruction, and excitement. A lurid 
glare now fell upon the huge towering waves, and upon the 
mass of snowy foam which seethed along the shore. More 
distinctly than ever could they now discern the poor fellows 
hanging on to the wreck, while the anxious faces on shore 
were so illuminated by the brilliant light that Philip and 
Tom could almost distinguish their features. 

Did you notice how she trembled when that last wave 
broke over her, Owen ? ” said Ben ; she’ll never stand 
another.” 

“ I wonder she hasn’t parted before this,” was the reply ; 
but surely I see two more men in the water ; that wave 
must have swept them off. Come on, form a line at once.” 

The chain was soon ready. It was longer this time than 
before ; the wreckers had been so terror-struck and dis- 
heartened by Nichols’ death that they had given up all 


328 The Watc/icrs on the Lougships, 

further attempts to secure plunder, and joined the others 
in their efforts to save life. 

Both men were rescued. One was a French officer, the 
other the Englishman who had acted as captain of the 
frigate during the last few days. The former was uncon- 
scious, the latter in a very few moments revived sufficiently 
to be able to speak. 

In a few words he told their sad story. When Arthur 
heard of the English prisoners on board he felt still more 
anxious to save the lives of those who yet survived. 

‘‘ There are two Englishmen, W,” said the man, “ still 
hanging on to the bows, one belongs to these parts ; if it 
hadnh been for his advice we should likely enough have 
gone ashore at a place where there’d have been no chance 
of saving any of us, he’s quite a young fellow, too.” 

“ Quite a young fellow . . . belongs to these parts.” The 
words struck Owen’s ear and startled him for a moment. 
“ Could itbe ? ” . . . he dared hardly hope, it was too unlikely ; 
but the thought of Philip passed through his mind. 

He looked seaward again, and saw a gigantic wave rolling 
in ; a moment after it had hidden the frail piece of wreck 
which had for so long been embedded in the rock. When 
it had passed over and dashed in a broad torrent of surf 
on the shore not a morsel of the frigate was to be seen, 
but the sea was strewn afresh with timbers, spars, and rig- 
ging, the broken fragments of the ship. 

The shriek of terror which arose from those who were 
thus torn from their one point of refuge and hurled into 
the watery abyss was heard in spite of the roar of the 
ocean. In all directions the poor fellows were seen float- 
ing hither and thither, making desperate efforts to battle 
with the waves, and they were met by as energetic and 
desperate attempts on the side of the brave men on shore. 
Three chains were now formed, success for the most part 


The Wreck. 


3^9 


crowned their efforts ; some still conscious, some apparently 
lifeless, were wrested from the cold embrace of the angry 
waves and dragged in safety to land. 

Do you see those two fellows clinging to that broken 
piece of the bowsprit } One of them is he that belongs to 
these parts,” said the captain to Owen. “They’ve, been 
great chums all the voyage ; they’re terrible Methodists, 
and that’s the worst that can be said of them.” 

Yes, there they were, distinctly visible by the lurid light 
of the blazing tar-barrel, but the next instant a receding 
wave hfd them for a moifient from Owen’s gaze, and when 
the broken spar again emerged from the surf — oh ! horror 
— there was only one man on it ; the other had released 
his hold, and was being tossed wildly about in the surge. 

“Not a moment is to be lost,” cried Owen, taking the 
lead. A chain was formed, the longest they had made yet. 
Owen, who felt nerved with a giant’s strength, plunged 
into the thick of the boiling surf. Blinded, stifled, he 
battled with the waves till he had all but grasped the 
drowning man, when a mighty billow rolled in with irresist- 
ible force and hurled him and the whole chain back on the 
beach. He sank down senseless and stunned. 

Arthur, who had yielded to the entreaties of the men to 
spare himself and rest for a while, had not formed one of 
the chain, but had eagerly and keenly watched the efforts of 
his brave friends. Now, when he perceived that their 
heroism had failed, and that not a second must be lost, he 
again sprang upon his horse, and, undaunted as before, 
urged the animal into the thick of the surf. He had this 
time to advance even farther than when he rescued 
Nichols. Twice the waves baffled him, and, just as he 
was about to grasp their victim, tore him from his hands ; 
but the third time he succeeded, and Tom Marriott, pale 
and apparently dead, lay upon the beach. 


330. Watchers on the Lojigships. 

A cheer broke from the crowd, in which none joined so 
heartily as the English captain, who observ^ed to Arthur, 
“ Eve seen many brave men, sir, in my day, but you beat 
them all by a long way ; you were cut out for a soldier or 
a sailor, and not for a parson, I’m sure. Ah ! this is the 
elder of the two — not the one who belongs to Cornwall — 
I -can see that chap still there, holding on to yonder spar.” 

Arthur was too exhausted to say more than “ We must 
save him, too ; ” and after a few moments’ breathing time 
he again sprang upon his faithful steed. 

When the remnant of the ship on which they had taken 
refuge went to pieces Tom and Philip continued to cling 
to a portion of the bowsprit, which had been snapped in 
two by the violence of the shock. As at first they sank 
into the cold water and felt themselves beaten about by the 
fury of the waves both gave themselves up for lost. But 
they still kept their firm trust and confidence in Him who 
holdeth the sea in the hollow of his hand, who stayeth its 
proud waves, and saith, “ Hitherto shalt thou come and no 
farther.” Philip now recalled the beautiful promise, 
‘‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with 
thee,” and kept his mind fixed on his loving Saviour ; he 
felt sure that He was close beside Him in the midst of this 
cold, merciless ocean, and that He would soon take him 
from this wild strife to His blessed rest in the Paradise 
above, and poor Tom thought this must be, indeed, “the 
valley of the shadow of death,” about which Bill Forster 
had read to him out of the “ Pilgrim’s Progress ; ” but 
commending himself unto the care of his Father in heaven, 
he clung as firmly as he could to the spar. A large piece 
of floating timber, however, coming in contact with it, 
struck Tom so violent a blow on the arm that he relaxed 
his hold. In a moment he was borne far away from the 
fragment of wreck. Philip clung to it alone. 


The Wreck. 


33t 


A terrible blow was it to the poor lad when he perceived 
that his friend had been washed from his side. He was so 
faint and exhausted that he knew he could only hold on a 
few minutes longer. When, now and then, he was borne 
up on the crest of a wave he could see by the light of the 
burning tar-barrel all the cottages on the Cove, his own 
beloved home among them, and he thought, too, that he 
recognized the tall figure of the parson among the crowd 
which lined the water^s edge. Ah, yes ! it would be as 
he had pictured to himself ; he must die within sight of 
home ; but at least his body would be washed up on the 
shore, and he would be buried by his mother’s side in the 
little churchyard at St. Sennen. 

Owen’s consciousness had just returned when Tom Mar- 
riott had been rescued by the parson. As he staggered to 
his feet he heard the men around him say that this was 
not the Cornish lad they had heard about, but his friend. 
He must be saved,” Owen cried ; “ where is he ‘t ” 
There, yonder on that spar,” cried Ben ; don’t you 
see him ? — too far off for any chain we could make to 
reach him.” 

But Owen’s gaze was now directed to the parson, whose 
horse was standing up to its knees in the surf, as its rider 
eagerly watched for an opportunity to plunge again into 
the waves. He hurried up to him. Sir,” he cried, “ let 
me go ; I will ride in, I will try and save the poor lad. I 
can’t help thinking — though perhaps it’s foolish of me — 
that it may be Philip ; let me go, sir ; you’re too done up 
already, sir, I can see by your face ; you’ve worked harder 
than any of us ; oh ! sir, spare yourself, I entreat you.” 

‘‘ No, no, Owen ; even if I consented my horse would 
only obey his master’s bidding on such an errand as this. 
Yes, I know I’m exhausted, but all the strength I’ve left 
I’ll use to save that poor young fellow, whoever he be ; he’s 


332 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


a good lad, I know, or they wouldn’t call him a Methodist. 
I may lose my life in the attempt, ‘ but the Good Shepherd 
giveth His life for the sheep,’ and you know ‘greater love 
hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his 
friends.’ ” 

These were the last words Owen heard him speak. Ere 
they had passed from his lips, dauntless, heroic as ever, he 
had plunged into the foaming abyss. Eagerly, breathlessly 
did the crowd gather down to the water’s edge and watch 
the brave rider as he battled with the waves, which were 
furiously opposing his advance. Now his horse was off its 
feet ; he was swimming ; they were close to the spar ; the 
next moment, to their intense horror and disappointment, 
they perceived that the man was no longer on the spar — 
exhaustion, or perhaps death, had made him release his 
hold. But his brave deliverer had no thought of giving 
him up ; his keen eye saw where he was still floating. 
Valiantly were horse and rider making their way towards 
him when a huge wave, with a majestic roll and a roar like 
thunder, in an instant enveloped spar, drowning man, horse 
and rider in one mass of foam. It was a terrible moment, 
of suspense to the watchers on the shore ; but they were 
not idle ; instantly two chains were formed to be ready to 
advance at once into the surge to render help if needful. 
But the billow had spent its fury, as in clouds of spray it 
broke upon the beach. All eyes were strained towards the 
point of interest. They beheld a riderless horse struggling 
alone to reach the shore. Nothing else ? Yes, two men 
who, though they clung to each other, seemed so com- 
pletely exhausted that they were the mere playthings of the 
waves. Not a second was lost ; the parson was in danger; 
an eager desire to save him animated every heart ; no one 
thought of the risk to which his own life might be exposed. 
The two chains already formed dashed into the raging 


The Wreck, 


333 


surf ; blinded, breathless, half suffocated by the sea, they 
struggled nobly on. Owen is the foremost man of one, 
Ben of the other line. Each band emulates the other in 
heroism. Owen at last is within reach of the drowning 
men ; he is already off his feet, and being obliged to swim^ 
has let go his hold of the next man in the chain, but the 
rope still keeps him bound to his companions. He is too 
much blinded by the surf to see which of the two he has 
seized in his strong grip ; but, though almost unconscious 
himself, he holds him tight, and a loud hurrah bursts from 
the throng on shore when his companions drag him up on 
the beach. A moment more and he looks on the pale 
inanimate features of the youth clasped in his arms. 

Philip — my son — my long lost son ! ” he says ; but he 
is dead — he is dead ! ’’ and then he sinks down fainting by 
his son’s side. 

Ben, meantime, had plunged into the surf at the same 
moment as Owen, and he and Abbott together had fought 
their way onwards through the boiling waves. Twice they 
had all but seized the apparently lifeless form of the clergy- 
man, but each time, carried away by a wave, it had eluded 
their grasp ; their third attempt, however, was successful, 
but so weakened were they by their exertions that they had 
to call for help — they had not strength to bear their burden^ 
Happily Philip’s rescuers had now time to re-form their 
line, and rushed in to their aid, dragging the exhausted 
men up high and dry on the beach. 

Their work was done now, they could rest from their 
heroic labors ; but all the joy and satisfaction they might 
have felt in having by their valor been instrumental in 
saving so many lives was completely damped when they 
gazed on the pale, lifeless form of their beloved pastor. 

There he lay, stretched out on the beach, motionless, in- 
animate — not a sign to indicate that a spark of life was 


334 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


still latent in that manly form. In their anxiety about him 
every one else was forgotten. They bore him at once to the 
nearest cottage, where he was laid on a bed beside a cheerful 
fire, and all those means used which are generally employed 
to restore animation to the apparently drowned. The 
village doctor, for whom Arthur himself had despatched a 
messenger about an hour ago, that he might be on the spot 
to give his help if required, arrived just at that moment. 
When he had examined the patient thoroughly, and felt 
his pulse and his heart, he turned very pale, looked grave, 
and shook his head. Still he ordered the men to continue 
rubbing his feet and hands. 

At that instant Owen staggered into the room, pale, 
haggard, like one half dead. The parson,” he gasped ; 
“ Mr. Arthur — is he saved — does he still live ? ” 

No one uttered a word, but despair was plainly written 
on every face. “ He is dead, then — he is dead — and my 
son Philip is dead, too,” cried the agonized man. “ O God ! 
O God ! this is more than I can bear.” 

Falling on his knees by the side of the bed, he seized 
Arthur’s cold hand, and, in a paroxysm of grief, burst into 
tears. And now Dick Evans entered the room ; his sorrow 
was quite as uncontrollable as Owen’s. There was not a 
man present down whose weather-beaten cheek the tears 
did not stream. Many of them, indeed, had been his 
enemies ; but now, when too late, they realized how deeply 
they had wronged him — how noble had been his life — 
how glorious his death. He had won more friends, more 
devoted adherents, in his last hour than he had done during 
the years he had labored among these rough Cove men. 
Even the surgeon, a stern, hard man, hostile to religion, 
and especially to anything like Methodism, was touched 
when he beheld how attached these rude, ignorant men — 
as he considered them — were to the parson. He turned 


The Wreck. 


335 


away to hide his emotion, and asked if there were any more 
patients for him to visit. 

Ben pulled him by the sleeve, and led him out. Is 
there no hope, sir ? he said, with a stifled sob. 

^‘Nothing but a miracle could restore that man to life,^’ 
replied the surgeon, endeavoring to regain his ordinary 
composure. 

Come, then, and see the young fellow, to save whom he 
sacrificed his life,” said Ben. He had heard that it was 
Philip, and he knew he was lying in Owen’s cottage. 

Pale and inanimate as Philip was, yet that deathlike 
pallor which was spread over Aithur Pendrean’s face was 
absent from his countenance. When the doctor examined 
him, he said, cheerfully, “ There’s hope here ; life is not 
extinct.” He succeeded in pouring a few drops of stimu- 
lant down the lad’s throat, who soon after sighed deeply, 
moved his head, and opened his eyes, but only to close 
them immediately. 

Ah ! I wish his father could see that ; it would cheer 
him up a bit,” said Ben. I’ll go and tell him.” 

He found Owen in the same posture — still kneeling by 
Arthur’s side, and holding his hand. Ben whispered 
something in his ear. He started. Alive ! ” he cried ; 

ah, don’t deceive me, Ben ; he looked quite dead when I 
left him ; but I’ll go and see,” and casting a look of deep 
sorrow and affection on Arthur’s lifeless form he followed 
Pollard into the next cottage. 

The father’s quick eye perceived the change in his son at 
once. Yes, he lived, indeed. The good parson had not 
sacrificed his life in vain, then, as he had feared — he had 
saved Philip ; but at what a price ! 

Owen bent over his son ; he was changed indeed ; how 
much older-looking he had become during the comparatively 
short time of their separation ; how worn and thin, too ! 


336 The Waichc7's 07i the iLoiigships. 

Yet there was a look of peace on his face which told of an 
inward calm, and made his father feel sure that he was 
ready to die, if such had been God’s will. 

Again the lad opened his eyes, and now he gazed full 
in Owen’s face. “ Father,” he muttered ; ‘‘is it you? — my 
father ? ” 

“Yes, Philip; yes, thank God!” he said, affectionately 
embracing him. 

“ But where am I ? Surely this is a dream.” 

“ No, no, Philip, no dream. You are at home in 
Sennen Cove,” replied Owen, hardly able to speak for 
emotion, yet fearful of agitating the half-recovered lad. 

Philip was silent, and closed his eyes again, as if he were 
trying to gather together in his memory the events of the 
last few hours. Slowly, one by one, they dawned upon him. 

“ Tom — where is Tom ? ” he asked. 

“ If you mean your mate who was clinging with you to 
the bows, Philip, he’s saved. I’ve seen him myself,” said 
his father. 

“ And the parson — ah ! the parson, Mr. Pendrean, father 
— where’s he ; is he safe ? ” 

Owen hesitated ; he did not like to tell him the whole 
truth in his present weak state. The surgeon, who was 
still standing by, and saw his embarrassment, interfered. 
“You mustn’t talk any more, my lad,” he said, “or it may 
go badly with you yet. You’re very weak ; here, take this, 
and lie quiet. Sleep’s what you want,” and he motioned 
Owen to leave the room. 

“ The parson — tell me if he still lives, father, father ! ” 
he said, in a faint voice, but there was no reply. Owen, 
perceiving from the doctor’s manner how important it was 
that Philip should not be: excited had hurried out of the 
room. 

With one exception — that of a poor Frenchman, who 


The Wreck. 


337 


had been ill for several days before the wreck, and who 
died a few hours after he was brought on shore — all the 
rescued men were doing well. When Tom Marriott revived 
his first question was whether Philip Tresilian had been 
saved. When he heard the good news he fervently 
thanked God for all His mercies to them both. ‘‘What a 
brave set of fellows you are here!’’ he exclaimed; “how 
.hard you worked to save our lives 1 You didn’t spare your- 
selves ; and what a noble gentleman your parson must be, 
about whom I’ve heard so much from my mate, Philip ! 
I’m longing to thank him for his endeavors to save us all.” 

“You’ll be disappointed in that, my man, I’m sorry to 
say,” said one of the Sennen fishermen, who was standing 
beside him ; “ our good parson has lost his own life in his 
endeavors to save your crew. I could see he was dead 
beat when he plunged into the water the last time ; he 
hadn’t strength to bear all that battling with the waves.” 

“ Your parson dead — drowned 1 ” said Tom, as he started 
up from the bed on which he was lying. “ This is sad news. 
Oh ! what will poor Philip say ? ” 

Slowly did the hours of that long night wear away. All 
hearts were sad and heavy ; each one felt that he had lost 
a friend — some the best friend they had; others were 
filled with remorse, for had they not turned a deaf ear to 
his earnest words and kindly warnings — too often slighted 
and mocked him while living among them ? Arthur’s 
noble, generous attempt to save the life of Nichols, his bit- 
terest enemy, had caused every man there to honor and 
love him. Such a deed had more weight with them than a 
hundred sermons, however earnest and eloquent, on the 
duty of forgiveness. It proved to them the truth, the noble 
reality, of that religion which hitherto they had sneered at 
and despised. Christianity, which moulded heroes of such 
a stuff as this, could not be the mawkish, cowardly thing 


338 The Watchers on the Longships. 

they had been led to consider it. After what they had 
witnessed that night it would be long, indeed, before any 
man present would again venture to use the words ‘‘ saint ” 
or “ Methodist ” as terms of reproach. 

Morning dawned bright and cheerful ; the sun rose in a 
cloudless sky ; there was scarcely a breath of air. After 
the violent tempest, which for well-nigh three days had 
been lashing the sea into fury, it was not to be expected 
that the heavy swell on the ocean would immediately sub- 
side ; the waves, with a dull, melancholy roar, broke in 
long, rolling curves of foam upon the beach, which was 
still strewn with the fragments of the wreck. Men and 
women, with sorrow deeply impressed upon their faces, 
stood in groups before the doors of the cottages. All felt 
that they had lost a friend. Though the sky overhead was 
bright there was a dark cloud on the hearts of all — a bur- 
den of grief difficult to bear ; none liked to speak of the 
terrible trial which had fallen upon them. 

Late the preceding night the sad tidings had reached 
the manor-house, and been broken to the old squire, who 
had just retired to rest. The servants told him first that a 
bad accident had happened to Mr. Arthur ; but love is 
far-sighted, and the squire was keen enough to perceive 
from their manner that something was being kept back, 
and that the whole truth had not been told him. 

The old man had been weak and ailing lately, but, feeble 
as he was, he sprang from his bed and began to dress. 

I will ride down to Sennen Cove at once,’’ he said ; 
‘^^here is something wrong with my son, worse than you 
have said, I know from your manner.” 

Sir,” said Roger Barton, his oldest and most confi- 
dential servant, ‘‘ there’s no use hiding the truth from you 
any longer. Master Arthur has lost his life in his brave 
efforts to save some poor fellows from a wreck down at the 


The Wreck. 


339 

Cove — alas! that I should have to tell you such news,” 
and the old man burst into tears. 

The squire stood motionless, as if petrified with grief 
and horror. 

“ Drowned — dead — my Arthur — my only boy — my 
brave son I No, Roger ; it can’t be true — that can never 
be ; they would not have allowed him to perish ; some one 
would have gone to rescue him, surely.” 

“ It is too true, sir,” sobbed Roger. Dick Evans has 
just come up from the Cove with the news ; the poor lad’s 
almost out of his mind with grief. He says that the doctor 
gave no hope at all, and that Mr. Arthur must have died 
before they dragged him out of the water, which all the 
men most bravely did as soon as they were able.” 

The squire sank down upon a chair and covered his face 
with his hands ; it was several minutes before he could 
speak. 

“ Ah, Roger ! ” he said at last, in a trembling voice, ‘‘ this 
will break my heart ; but go at once down to the Cove, 
and convince yourself that it is quite true ; and then — and 
then, if it is — bring my son here.” 

“ Yes, sir ; I will go directly,” said Roger ; but I pray 
you, sir, don’t indulge any false hopes that Master Arthur 
still lives. The other man who came up from the Cove 
with Dick said just the same as he did ; he is one of those 
who helped to pull Master Arthur out of the water.” 

Go, Roger, go ; I believe you,” groaned the squire ; 
“only let me look upon his face once more before I die.” 

Before daybreak Roger was back at ?Iie manor-house, 
having performed his sad and solemn errand. The body 
of the young parson was carried up to his own room and 
laid upon his bed. Then the faithful servant again stood 
before his crushed and affiicted master. He Was sitting 
exactly in the same posture in which he had left him soine 
hours before, 


340 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

“ Sir,” he said, in a voice broken by emotion I’ve been 
down to the Cove, as you wished me ; and it’s all true, I 
grieve to say ; and we’ve brought Master Arthur back with 
us, and he’s lying now on his own bed.” 

‘‘True; is it? Ah, true,” said the squire, with a deep 
sigh ; “ and you’ve brought the dear boy here as I told you. 
Thank you, Roger. I will go and look upon his beloved 
face again.” 

The old man got up and tottered towards the door, but 
the shock had been too much for his already enfeebled 
health ; he would have fallen had not Roger seized him in 
time. Then, leaning heavily on the arm of the faithful 
servant, with trembling step he proceeded to Arthur’s 
room. 

It looked to the east, and the rising sun was just sending 
his bright cheering rays in at the window ; they fell upon 
the bed on which lay the lifeless form of his beloved son ; 
and just as the bereaved father entered, the golden beams 
illuminated the pale face of the deceased, giving it such a 
look of life that the squire started and exclaimed, — 

“ No, it is not true, Roger ! he still lives. Look, look at 
his face ! surely he has revived.” 

“No, no, sir; do not deceive yourself, I entreat you,” 
said Roger ; “ it is only the sunlight falling on his dear 
face. Ah! how happy and peaceful he seems ! Take com- 
fort, sir, from that. He is at rest with the Saviour he loved 
so much and taught us all to love,” and the tears flowed 
thick and fast down old Roger’s face. 

The squire bent over his son ; he took his cold hand and 
kissed his pale face, and then, turning to Roger, he said, 
“Yes, you speak the truth, Roger I there is no hope ; he 
has gone from us.; I shall never hear his voice again. He 
was the bravest of the brave ; no man ever had so good a 
son ; no man ever sustained such a loss as I have done, 


The Wreck, 


W 

Oh ! Arthur, Arthur ! I cannot live without you/^ Over- 
whelmed with grief, he sank down on a chair by the bed- 
side. 

“ My dear master,^^ said Roger, trying to suppress his 
own sorrow, “ try and think what Master Arthur would say 
to us if he could speak. He’d tell us not to fret and take 
on so about him, for that he was quite happy, and gone to 
be with his Saviour — that he had entered into the joy of 
his Lord, and was resting from all his labors. And he’d 
say, too, that we ought to look forward to the blessed day 
when we shall meet him again in Paradise above. Oh, 
sir ! try and think of this, and take some comfort to your 
soul.” 

‘‘ Roger,” said the squire, ‘‘ I know what you say is true, 
and that he would say the same if he could speak ; but, oh ! 
it’s very hard.” 


% 


342 


The Watchers on the Longs hips. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

AT HOME AND IN PEACE. 

“ They were — 

But what avails it now ter tell of what has been ? 

Fond-hearted, dear, and passing fair 
As e'er on earth were seen ! 

“ They are — 

In safety with their God, secure from sin and care, 

And the bright day cannot be far 

When we shall meet them there.” 

— Monskll. 

“ We doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other, nobler work to do.” 

— Tennyson. 

Owen Tresilian watched* all night by his son^s side. 
Philip remained in a quiet, peaceful slumber till the morning. 
Conflicting thoughts and feelings filled the father’s breast. 
His heart swelled with gratitude to the Giver of all good 
when he gazed on the calm, tranquil face of his beloved son, 
who had been at last so graciously restored to his prayers. 
But at what a cost ! When he reflected on that, on the irre- 
parable loss that not only he individually, but the whole 
country for miles around, had sustained, he was crushed 
with sorrow ; he could not rejoice as he otherwise would 
have done over the recovery of his son whom he so often 
had given up for lost. Anxiety, too, about little Mary 
oppressed and troubled him. How long would she be 
able to endure that terrible solitude ? when would it be 
possible for him to put out to the lighthouse and release 
her? The bright sunlight shining in at the little window, 


At Home and in Peace, 343 

and the clear blue sky, inspired him with some hope. There 
was no wind, and though, in such a swell as for several 
days would rage among the rocks, it would be impossible 
to land at the Longships, he might be able to approach 
sufficiently near for Mary to recognize him. He would 
have the satisfaction of knowing that she was alive and 
well, and she would feel that he had not forgotten her, and 
that as soon as the weather permitted he would hasten to 
release her. Many of the Cove men looked into the cottage 
that morning to inquire after Philip ; there was grief and 
gloom on every face. 

“ They’ve carried him away to his father’s, the squire’s,” 
said Ben ; “ the poor old gentleman is taking on dreadfully ; 
they say he’ll never get over it.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it, Ben,” said Owen ; “he might well 
be proud of such a son, and to lose him suddenly in the 
very pride of manhood must be a terrible blow to his 
father. If we all feel the loss so greatly, how much more 
must the poor squire ? ” 

Tom Marriott, looking very pale and exhausted, now 
entered the cottage. 

“ They told me I oughtn’t to get up so soon,” he said to 
Owen, in a whisper, “ but I couldn’t feel comfortable till 
I’d been to see how Phil was getting on ; he’s been a good 
friend to me, and for months now we’ve kept very close to 
one another. I was afraid last night Td lost him, but, 
thank God, I’m told he was saved after all, and now I see 
it with my own eyes. The Lord be praised ! He’s in a 
nice sleep, too.” 

“ Sit down,” said Owen, “ and I’ll give you some break- 
fast, and stay on here with me till Philip wakes, but don’t 
say anything to him about our having lost our dear 
parson.” 

“Oh! that’s a sad affair, indeed,” said Tom, “the good 


344 Watchers on the Longships, 

clergyman Philip told me so much about — only to think 
that he should have met his death in saving Phil’s life ! ” 

The two men sat down together by the fireside. Tom 
related to Owen the whole story of the voyage and its inci- 
dents, while Tresilian in return told the hardly less exciting 
story of the lighthouse. 

“ Philip didn’t tell me very wrong, then, about the bad 
set of fellows you have here,” said Tom, “but that 
daughter of yours must be a brave little lass, indeed. 
She cheered us, I can assure you, by keeping that light 
burning so brightly; it was by it Philip made out where- 
abouts on the coast we were. If we hadn’t seen it .we 
should have gone on shore at a point where there’d have 
been no chance of saving our lives.” 

“ Yes, thank God ! ” said Owen ; “ and many other vessels 
have been saved from shipwreck the last two nights by 
that light burning so brightly on the Longships.” 

Philip now began to stir, and in a few minutes he 
opened his eyes, and looked around the room with which 
since his infancy he had been so familiar. When he saw 
his father and Tom sitting before the fire, he raised him- 
self up in bed, asking confusedly, “ Father, am I really 
at home ? and where’s Mary ? ” 

Owen hastened to his son’s side. “ Mary is not here 
now, Philip,” he replied, “ but I hope you will see her to- 
morrow or the day after ; yes, you are really at home now, 
thank God ! ” 

“ Ah ! and there you are too, Tom ! how good God has 
been in saving both of us,” said Philip. “ I should have 
been drowned if it had not been for our parson. I’d given 
up all for lost. I’d fought with the waves till I was dead- 
beat, and had no more strength in me ; then he came dash- 
ing through the foam on his good horse, catching hold of 
me just as I was sinking, and I heard him call out to me, 


At Hoiue and iii Peace. 


345 


* Philip ! Philip ! thank God that I should be able to save 
you.’ T remember no more, for just then a great wave 
came rolling over us both. I felt the parson’s strong grasp 
round my waist, and then I lost all consciousness till I 
woke up and saw you, father, last night standing beside 
me. And now I want to see our good Mr. Arthur, to 
thank him. Where is he, father do you think he’ll soon 
come to see me ? ” 

Owen was silent ; he did not know how to reply to his 
son’s eager questions. There seemed no way of evading 
them ; he feared he must tell the whole truth, now that 
Philip seemed sufficiently recovered to bear it. He knew 
that whenever his son heard the sad news it must cause 
him the bitterest grief. 

‘‘ Ah, Philip ! ” he said, as the tears started to his eyes, 
“ don’t ask me about the parson.” 

You don’t mean, surely, father, that any harm has hap- 
pened to Mr. Pendrean ? Was he hurt last night ? Tell 
me, what is it ? ” He seized his father’s hand and gazed 
into his sad face, down which the tears were trickling. 

“ Philip ! Philip ! ” said Owen, ‘‘ there’s no good hiding 
it any longer from you. Our dear, good parson lost his life 
last night in saving yours.” 

For a few moments Philip sat up in his bed motionless 
and silent, then, covering his face with his hands, he burst 
into a paroxysm of grief. 

“ Oh ! this is fearful news, father ; would to God that I 
had perished before reaching the shore rather than that I 
should have been the cause of the death of our good, kind 
parson ! Only to think that I, so unworthy, should be 
saved, while he, whose life has been so noble and so useful, 
and who will be missed by hundreds, should be lost — and 
for my sake, too, 0 father ! I cannot bear to think of 
it!” 


346 The Watchers oil the Longs hips, 

“ I knew you’d take on bitterly, Philip, when you heard 
this bad news,” said Tom; “but you must remember that 
though you and all the good folks here may well mourn 
the loss they have sustained, it’s all gain to him that’s 
gone. God’s taken him away from all the cares and 
sorrows of this evil world, to be at rest and peace with 
Him. Try and take comfort from that, lad.” 

But Philip could not speak ; he lay for some time on his 
bed sobbing bitterly. 

To divert his thoughts from this sad subject, his father 
related to him his own adventures during the last few days, 
how he had been kidnapped and imprisoned, and how poor 
little Mary had been left alone in the lighthouse. “ And 
now, Philip,” he said, “ I must go and get some of our 
fellows to join me and put out to the Longships, to cheer 
up our Molly by the sight of me. Your mate, Tom, here 
will keep you company while I’m gone.” 

“ Poor little Mary ! ” said Philip sadly ; “ only to think of 
her being left in that lighthouse all alone. Ah ! God has 
brought me home to hear many tales of sin and sorrow. 
Come back as soon as you can, father, and I hope you’ll 
bring us good news of our dear Mary.” 

Owen hurried down to the beach. There was still a 
great deal of surf, but not a man now refused to help him 
when informed of the expedition he proposed. It was, 
however, with no little difficulty that they succeeded in 
launching a boat, in which Owen and five brave com- 
panions embarked for the f^ongships. 

When Mary awoke on that Monday morning she could 
perceive by the light which streamed through the narrow 
window of the room that the sun was shining, and that the 
terrible gale was over. The waves, indeed, still beat against 
the lighthouse, and the sea roared in the cave below^ but 
she no longer heard the whistling and howling of the wind. 


At Home and iii Peace, 


347 


She hastened up to the cupola. There was not a cloud 
now in the clear blue sky, and the sun was shining brightly ; 
there was still a heavy swell and a broad fringe of snowy 
surf all along the shore, yet the waves were rolling in so 
slowly that she knew from experience that ere long it would 
be calm, and then she felt certain her father w^ould come 
out to her once mgre, and she would learn the reason why 
they had been separated. 

When she said her morning prayers, she thanked God for 
making the storm to cease, and causing the bright, cheerful 
sun once more to gladden her with its bearns, and she 
prayed Him to grant that the calm weather might continue, 
and her dear father be restored to her. Then she thought 
of the great ship which she had seen laboring in the gale 
the previous evening, and she went up the staircase again 
and on to the gallery to look for it, but not a trace of it was 
to be seen. It must, then, have gone down, or been dashed 
upon the rocks during the fierce tempest which had raged 
through the night. She felt very sad, and her heart ached 
for those poor men who, she feared, had found a watery^ 
grave in the storm. Would that she could have saved 
them ! She had done her best, indeed — she had kept the 
light burning ; and she trusted that by God’s mercy it had 
warned many mariners from the dangerous coast, and 
preserved their vessels from shipwreck. 

And now, as she gazed over the sea, she perceived a 
small sail just turning round the point which hid Sennen 
Cove from her view. She knew at once that it was a 
Sennen boat, and she felt sure that her father must be in 
it, and that he was coming back to the rock. But would 
he be able to land ? When she looked at the wild waves 
tumbling in confused masses around, now leaping up the 
lighthouse walls, now rolling in long majestic sweep and 
breaking in cascades of foam on the rocks, she knew it 


348 The Watchers on the Loigships, 

would be utterly impossible. “ Ah ! ” she thought, “ my 
good, kind father is coming as near as he can to let me 
feel he has not forgotten me.” She never took her eyes 
off the smack bravely making its way over the waves, 
sometimes almost buried in them, so that nothing but the 
mast and sail could be seen, sometimes borne aloft on the 
the top of a great wave. It had approached so near that 
Mary could see the men on board. She ran down stairs to 
fetch one of the signal flags by which they were accustomed 
to make known their wants when they could not otherwise 
communicate with the shore. The flag which Mary chose 
was that which signifled All right.” The brave little maid 
felt sure her father — whatever might have been the cause 
of his own absence — must have been very anxious about 
her ; and when he saw the “ All right ” flag waved from the 
gallery, how happy and relieved he would feel ! And was 
it not “ All right,” too ? She had been frightened, indeed, 
and suffered much in her solitude, but God had protected 
her ; He had given her strength and courage to do her 
duty, and for two nights to keep the lamps burning as 
brightly as her father would have done. Yes, she felt, 
indeed, how true it was that “ though the waves of the sea 
are mighty, and rage horribly, yet the Lord who dwelleth 
on high is mightier.” 

And now the boat had come so near to the rock that 
she could plainly see there were six men in it. She longed 
to make out her father’s well-known figure, she would not 
feel quite easy at heart until she did. So violently did 
the little boat roll and pitch, that it was difficult to distin- 
guish those on board ; but when in a few minutes they 
lowered their sail, Mary saw a tall man stand up in the 
centre of the boat and wave a flag as an answer to hers. 
There was no doubt in her mind now. It was, indeed, 
her dear father. He was alive and well. This was all she 


At Home and in Peace. 


349 


cared for, all that was needful to set her mind at rest. 
Her heart swelled in gratitude to her Father above. He 
had answered her prayer. Whatever might have occurred 
during the last few days, she knew now that God had been 
with her father and preserved his life. 

When Owen returned to his cottage after his successful 
cruise, he found Philip and Tom sitting together before 
the fire. The former, who looked worn and sad, eagerly 
inquired what news he brought of Mary. 

“ Thank God, Philip,” he replied, ‘‘ she is safe ; I saw 
her with my own eyes on the gallery of the lighthouse ; 
there was such a heavy swell we couldn’t get very near, 
but I think she made me out, for I stood up as high as I 
could in the boat, while two of the fellows held me tight 
lest I should be pitched overboard. I waved my flag, 
which she must have seen. There she stood, the dear 
child, holding up the ‘All right’ signal, which she knew 
would cheer me up — kind, thoughtful girl that she is. O 
Philip ! if the weather only keeps fine like this the swell ’ll 
be gone down enough by to-morrow for me to land on the 
rock and fetch her home to nurse you.” 

“ Oh ! that will be joy, to see hor again, father ; I never 
thought I should, especially the last few days. But who’s 
going to keep the lights burning if you and Mary come on 
shore ? ” 

“ I shall go back again, Philip, before nightfall. We 
must never let those lamps out again. Nothing lay so 
near our dear parson’s heart as that lighthouse. Trouble 
enough he’s had in looking out for lighthouse-keepers, and 
a bitter grief it was to him when for a time the beacon 
ceased to shine.” 

“When I get well, father. I’ll be able to help you, and 
take my turn, I hope,” said Philip. 

“ Perhaps I can lend a hand, too,” said Tom. “ I’ve 
3ome thoughts of settling down among you all.” 


350 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

“ O Tom ! I wish you would/’ said Philip. ‘‘ We’ve 
been good friends, and I should be sorry indeed to lose you.”— 

Mary felt quite happy and light-hearted all that day. 
She cleaned up the lamps, tidied the room, which she had 
not had heart to do before, every now and then anxiously 
watching the aj^pearance of the sky, fearful only lest an- 
other spell of bad weather might delay her father coming 
out to her. But at evening the sun set in a blaze of crim- 
son and gold, the sea had become comparatively smooth ; 
and when she lighted her lamps it was with a firm hope 
that the morrow would terminate her solitary confinement. 
Early next morning she took up her post aloft to watch for 
the longed-for sail. She had not long to wait, and much 
more rapid progress did the boat make to-day than it had 
done yesterday, as, favored by a light breeze, it danced 
gaily over the waters. And now it was close to the rock; 
she could see her father standing at the helm steering and 
giving his orders to the other men. She waved the flag as 
she had done before, and her father replied by a motion of 
his hand. An end had come to the long period of sus- 
pense for both father and daughter, but there was still so 
much swell that there was great difficulty in effecting a 
landing. Once or twice Owen thought it would have to 
be given up for that day. After several failures, however, 
he succeeded in springing on to the rock, but he was con- 
vinced of the impossibility of getting Mary into the boat 
with such a heavy swell as was still running. He, there- 
fore, told his companions to leave him and come out the 
next day should the weather be sufficiently favorable. 
Mary, alternately swayed by hope and fear, had veagerly 
watched from the gallery all the movements of the boat. 
When she saw her father safe on the rock, she hurried 
down the staircase to the door of the lighthouse, and in a 
moment was in his arms. The hearts of both were too 


At Home and in Peace, 


3Sr 


full to speak for some time, as together they entered the 
gloomy little room which had been their home for the last 
few inpnths. 

Mary,’’ said Owen at last, “ this has been a terrible 
three days ; thank God they are over and I see you again. 
Ah ! child, how I have felt for you, and prayed for you, 
too. You look pale and worn, indeed, but blessed be God, 
He has watched over and preserved you. How brave you 
have been to keep the lights burning every night ! I can’t 
think how you managed it, my child ! ” 

“ O father ! I’ve been all right and well,” replied Mary, 
“except for fretting about you, because I didn’t know 
what had become of you. And you look pale, too, and 
sad, father. I’m sure something terrible has happened. 
You never looked like that before. Please let me know 
what is the matter. Where have you been all this time 
why didn’t you come back on Friday ? ” 

“Ah, Mary, dear ! it’s a long story I have to tell, and a 
sad one, too, but there’s joy mixed with the sorrow. God 
has taken away from us, but He has restored too; first 
I’m sad and then I’m happy; but I’m sure what He does 
must be all for the best.” 

“ Tell me the worst first, father. I’m so glad to see 
you again that I feel I could bear to hear the saddest 
news ; but I hope no harm’s come to Mr. Arthur. 

“Alas ! my child,” Said Owen, as his eyes filled with 
tears, “ that’s just what it is. God has taken our dear 
good parson from us. You’ll never hear his voice again. 

“ O father, father ! it can’t be true. Mr. Arthur dead ! ” 
cried the poor child, in an agony of grief. 

“Alas ! too true,” was the reply. 

“ O father ! that you should have brought such news ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ But tell me all about it ; how did he 
die, and where ? ” 


352 The Watchers on the Longships. 

“ He lost his life, Mary, in saving your brother Philip’s, 
who was wrecked off the Cove in that great French ship 
you must have seen pass by here last night,” replied Owen. 

‘‘ In saving Philip’s life ! ” exclaimed Mary, in amaze- 
ment, looking up into her father’s face amid her tears ; 
“ has Philip, then, come back, and is he alive and well ? ” 

“ Thank God, he is,” replied Owen. 

Mary was too overcome by conflicting emotions to say a 
word more. To learn that her long-lost brother, whom she 
loved so intensely, was restored to her was an unspeakable 
joy; but how was it damped by the terrible loss of the 
beloved parson, who had always taken so deep and affec- 
tionate an interest in her father and her family ! 

When she had become a little more composed her father 
related to her all that had occurred to him since they parted 
last Friday. He told her of his own capture and impris- 
onment in the cave, of his release on Sunday afternoon, 
of the wreck at Sennen Cove, of the heroic exploits and 
noble death of their brave and generous clergyman. 

Intently did she listen to Owen’s thrilling narrative. 

O father ! ” she said, when he had finished, ‘T wish I 
had been there, if only to see our good parson for the last 
time, and say good-bye to him ! ” 

It’s a heavy blow to us all, child,” replied Owen ; 
“ there’s not a soul for miles round that does not feel they 
have lost a true friend.” 

“ But he’s happy, father,” she said, amid her tears ; 
‘‘ God’s taken him to His home above, where the wicked 
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest ; and then 
how bravely he died ! ” 

“ Yes, Mary, it’s a grand thing to meet death as nobly as 
he did — dying to save others; and wasn’t it strange — 
^ they tell me that, on Sunday morning, he preached from the 
text, ‘ Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay 


At Home and in Peace, 


3S3 


down his life for his friends ; ’ and they were the last 
words, too, he ever spoke to me.” 

That was just like our good Mr. Arthur, always think- 
ing about doing good to others, and never about himself,” 
replied Mary. 

They talked on till it was time for Owen to light the 
lamps. He found everything in perfect order. 

‘‘ But tell me, Molly,” he asked, how did you manage to 
reach the lamps } They are far above your head.” 

‘‘ Why, father, I got a chair, and when that wasn’t high 
enough I piled several things on top of it ; and, last of all, 
when I could 'find nothing else, and still couldn’t reach 
them, I took down our big Bible. At first I was afraid to 
stand upon the holy book — it didn’t seem quite right ; but 
when I thought that unless I did so the lamps couldn’t 
be lighted, and ships might be wrecked, and poor fellows 
drowned, I felt that if there was any harm God would for- 
give me ; and I was high enough then, and I managed it 
easily enough.” 

Owen smiled, and kissed his daughter. 

‘^You are a brave lass, and clever, too, Mary. I’m 
proud of you, and so was Mr. Arthur. You should have 
seen how pleased he looked when he heard that, though 
you were left here all alone, you had lighted the lamps as 
usual.” 

Mary sighed, and the tears started to her eyes. 

O father ! if I could have seen him once more ! ” she 
said. 

Next morning the sun again shone from a cloudless 
sky, and the sea at last was quite calm. Soon after day- 
break Mary and her father, who were eagerly on the watch, 
caught sight of the Sennen smack with a fair wind rapidly 
gliding over the short, crisp waves towards the Longships. 
This morning there was but little difficulty in landing. 


354 Watchers on the Longships. 

When the boat came alongside, Owen saw that there were 
seven men on board, among whom he recognized his son 
and Tom Marriott. The latter was the first to spring on 
the rock. Grasping Owen’s hand, he said, — 

“ Phil was determined to come off on this cruise ; he 
said he felt much stronger to-day, and was so eager to see 
you and his sister, but I was not going to let him come 
without me ; so we’ve both come, as you see.” 

Immediately after, Philip, still very pale and rather weak, 
sprang on the rock. 

‘‘ Here I am, father,” he said, all right again, and none 
the worse for this sail ; but where’s Mary ? ” 

Owen led the way up into the little gloomy room of the 
lighthouse, and brother and sister were soon in each 
other’s arms. It was a great surprise to Mary to see Philip. 
She had as little as her father expected that he would ven- 
ture out to the lighthouse. 

“This is a joy, indeed, Phil, to see you again ! Father’d 
given you up for lost long ago, but I never did, nor did 
Mr. Arthur. We always prayed for you ; and I was sure, 
wherever you were, that God would bring you back to us 
safe and sound ; but how pale and ill you look. You 
shouldn’t have come out here this morning.” 

“ O Mary, dear ! I couldn’t wait, I longed so to see you 
again, particularly after all I’d heard about you being shut 
up all alone in this dreary place. You must be a brave girl, 
I’m sure.” 

“ Come, children,” said Owen, “ you’ll have time enough 
to tell your adventures when you get on shore, and the 
sooner we start the better. Ben Pollard and Abbott have 
promised to remain here to-night to relieve me and Mary 
for a bit, so I’ll just show them how to trim the lamps, and 
'then we’ll sail homewards.” 

Mary was not sorry at the prospect of a release from the 


At Home and in Peace. 


3SS 


lonely prison, where she had spent so many anxious hours. 
A short sail in the boat, sitting by her brother's side, and 
she was once more in the dear old cottage where she was 
born. Here the one dark shadow, the thought of him who 
had been so frequent and familiar a guest, and whom they 
would never welcome there again, cast a gloom over the 
complete happiness which father and children, once more 
united, would otherwise have enjoyed. Their thoughts and 
their conversation constantly reverted to the well-loved par- 
son. None of them could speak of him without tears. 

But it was Philip who felt Arthur Pendrean^s death the 
most keenly of all. He had during the whole of his 
absence longed to see the parson again, to tell him how he 
had never forgotten the last words and admonitions he 
heard from his lips on that Sunday afternoon when he was 
carried off by the press-gang, — how he had treasured the 
little Testament he had given him, reading it whenever he 
had a chance, and drawing comfort from it, not only for 
himself, but also for his mates. He wanted to tell him, too, 
how in the midst of sin and temptation he had striven to 
lead a pure and upright life, and how God had helped him 
to do so by giving him strength and patience, and by 
raising up friends who encouraged him to persevere in a 
Christian course. All this, and much more, he had hoped 
to pour into Mr. Arthur’s ear if God ever answered his 
prayers and brought him back to Old England again. 
And now he was once more in his dear home, by his own 
fireside, with his father and sister; but Mr., Arthur, his 
beloved friend and pastor, was no more. He had sacrificed 
his own life in saving his. The one was taken, and the 
other left. 

He told his father and sister all this, adding, I am um 
worthy, indeed, of such a sacrifice, that a life* so noble as 
his was should be given up to save mine ; but I’ll try, father, 


356 The Watchers on the Longs hips. 

from henceforth, if God gives me health and strength, to 
make it as worthy as possible of the price that has been 
paid for it. I hope Til never shrink from doing my duty, 
however hard it may be. I will try, God helping me, to 
save as many lives as I can, not only from shipwreck, but 
from other evils, too, — I mean those which destroy the 
soul. If Mr. Arthur can see me from the happy place 
where I know he is he shan’t feel that he gave up his life 
for nebbing. Oh, that God may give me His Holy Spirit, 
that i. may have grace and strength to follow the parson’s 
noble example ! ” 

The events of that memorable Sunday night spread 
rapidly through the country. There was not a village or 
hamlet within a circuit of six or eight miles to which the 
tidings of the death of the good young clergyman did not 
bring bitter grief and sorrow. All mourned the loss of one 
who, by a life of self-sacrifice, generosity, and true piety, 
had won the hearts of all except the most utterly de- 
praved. 

Upon the old squire the blow had fallen most heavily. 
His son had been all in all to him. Very gradually, and 
by slow degrees, he was beginning to see that Arthur was 
right, that religion was the one thing needful to make 
a man happy in this world and the next. From that son’s 
noble, pure, Christ-like life he had learned that one who 
fears God, and whose earnest aim is to serve and glorify 
Him, is not necessarily a milksop or a coward ; and now 
that he had died as a true hero, by giving up his life to 
save that of another, his father was thoroughly convinced 
of the truth of that Christianity of which his beloved Arthur 
had been so devoted and zealous a disciple. 

Henceforth, for the few short and weary years which he 
might be permitted to spend in this world, he would 
endeavor to serve that blessed Master whom his son had 


At Home and i)i Peace. 


357 


so loved and followed, humbly trusting that God would 
accept his service — late, alas ! as it was offered Him — and 
bring him at last to that eternal kingdom of rest and peace 
whither Arthur had already entered, and where he hoped 
one day to meet him. Henceforth, his one object in life 
should be to continue his son’s work as far as he was able. 

They laid the young pastor to rest among his own people 
— in the midst of the flock he had so carefully and lovingly 
tended — in the little bleak churchyard of St. Sem His 
father had at first directed that Arthur should be interred 
in the family vault in the large church of St. Buryan, but 
the fishermen of Sennen begged very hard that their 
beloved parson might lie in the churchyard of the village 
where he had labored. In that church, Sunday after Sun- 
day, they had listened to his voice — now silent forever 
in the grave — there, in burning words, he had told them 
of the love of God to their souls, and how earnestly He 
longed that they might all be saved — there he had warned 
them of the evil consequences of sin, and directed them to 
the Cross, where peace and happiness could alone be found. 
The old squire was touched by their loving and natural 
request; he felt, too, that Arthur himself would have 
desired it, and, therefore, he readily gave his consent. 

The funeral was a plain and simple one. The day was 
cold and cheerless, and a cutting east wind swept over the 
barren moorland as the faithful pastor was borne by the 
rough fishermen, to whom his short life had betin devoted, 
to his last long home. The college friend, like-minded 
with himself, had, at the squire’s request, come to perform 
the ceremony, and for the present to remain at Sennen and 
carry on Arthur’s work. The whole population from the 
villages and hamlets around had assembled in and about 
the little churchyard. Not a dry eye was to be seen among 
them, and the voice of the clergyman who read the service 


35 3 The Watchers on the Longs hips, 

was repeatedly drowned by their sobs. Weighed down by 
the intensity of his grief, the old squire stood beside his 
son’s coffin, resting on the arm of his devoted servant ; but 
with the eye. of faith he was ever and anon able to pierce 
the gloom of sadness which surrounded him and take some 
comfort to his soul. The beautiful words of the service, 
telling of the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eter- 
nal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, helped to cheer the 
bereaved father, and to enable him to bear the heavy burden 
which God had seen' fit to lay upon him. 

Owen, with Philip and Mary at his side, stood beside the 
open grave ; they, indeed, were overwhelmed by the bitter- 
ness of their sorrow, still they^tried to take heart, for they 
all knew the truth, of the words then spoken, “ Blessed are 
the dead which die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit, 
for they rest from their labors.” Their loss, then, was his 
infinite gain ; he, now delivered from the burden of the 
flesh, was in joy and felicity. They prayed God to give 
them grace and strength to follow the good parson as he 
had followed Christ. 

All the men who had been rescued from the wreck were 
present at the grave ; the English sailors, most of whom 
had led wild, dissolute lives, never giving a thought to 
religion, were so touched by the events of the last few days 
and the solemn words of the burial service that many 
among them resolved to turn over a new leaf and try to 
lead a better life ; while the French crew, with the suscep- 
tibility of their race, wept like children when they saw the 
coffin of their brave preserver lowered into the ground. 
Their officers, who were never tired of praising the gen- 
erosity and heroism of the young English clergyman, con- 
fessed tKat after all there might be some truth in the 
Christianity they had hitherto despised — for a religion 
which inspired such noble deeds could hardly be based on 
an utterly false foundation. 


At Home and in Peace, 


359 


On the headstone that marked the young clergyman’s 
grave two texts were inscribed, one was the last from which 
he had preached, and which he had so nobly illustrated in 
his death, Greater love hath no man than this, that he 
lay down his life for his friends ; ” and to this was added 
the verse from the Psalms, “ He asked life of Thee, and 
Thou gavest him a long life, even forever and ever/’ 

Philip, as soon as he had a little recovered from the 
effects of the shock and of the long exposure on the wreck, 
went to see Bob Harris’ mother, to break to her the sad 
tidings of her son’s death, and to give her his last message. 
To learn that he died bravely fighting for his country, 
penitent for his sins, and humbly trusting in the merits of 
his Saviour, was a great comfort to the poor woman, who, 
having heard nothing of her son since the day he was 
pressed and torn from her, had already given him up for 
dead. 

Dick became a frequent visitor at Tresilian’s cottage ; he 
and Philip had very much to tell each other, and they were 
never tired of talking about the good parson. God’s pro- 
vidence had, indeed, watched over those three lads, who on 
that Sunday afternoon had been dragged from their homes. 
One the Good Shepherd had taken to himself, the other 
two He had guarded and preserved in terrible dangers, 
that they might glorify Him by continuing His faithful 
soldiers and servants until their lives’ end. 

Tom made up his mind to remain at Sennen, and soon 
after he married a young woman belonging to ,the place. ' 

The wicked custom of wrecking now almost ceased to 
exist in those parts. If undertaken at all, it was only 
secretly, and by a very few of the worst and most depraved 
characters. 

The improvement and reform among the fishermen 
which Arthur Pendrean had with such perseverance and 


360 The Watc/icrs on the Longships. 

self-denial worked for during his life became after his 
death an accomplished fact. So steady and well-con- 
ducted were the majority of the villagers now that the 
very few who clung to their old manner of life found it 
best to leave for other parts of the coast. Among these 
was Bill Nichols, upon whose hard heart as yet no impres- 
sion had been made. 

Mary never again lived at the lighthouse, though she 
frequently went there to visit her father and brother, and 
sometimes even to stay a night or two when they were 
acting as lighthouse-keepers. 

The light on the Longships Rock never went out again. 
Ever since that day it has burned on “steadfast, serene, 
immovable, the same.’’ Neither has there been any diffi- 
culty in finding watchers. 

In love and reverence for the memory of their dear 
pastor, who had taken so deep an interest in the lighthouse, 
it became with the Sennen men a point of honor that the 
beacon on the Longships should never cease to shine. 
The noble work of saving life from shipwreck, which he 
began, they determined to carry" on. Henceforth the light- 
house should never be untenanted. All the Cove men 
made a compact to watch there by turns, two alwa’ys, and 
sometimes three, being on the rock at once. Owen and 
Philip occasionally occupied the post, as did Tom Marriott 
and Dick Evans. Howg,ver violent might be the gale, 
though the wind howled and the waves dashed with terrible 
fury" against the strong walls, while the roar from the cavern 
beneath was awful and deafening, no lighthouse-keeper ever 
murmured, none shirked his duty when his turn came 
round. Each thought of the little child who had once been 
left there all alone, how bravely she had performed her 
duty, undaunted by the fearful solitude and by the roar 
and tumult of the elements as they raged around her. 


At Home mid in Peace. 


361 

From her example they took courage, cheering each other 
•to bear patiently the short period of exile and privation, 
which, however irksome to them, was of such infinite benefit 
to humanity ; and remembering that by the regular and 
quiet exercise of their humble duty many lives were con- 
stantly preserved to their families and their country. 

Within the last few years a new lighthouse has been 
.erected on the Longships. The old building, the scene of 
our tale, which for eighty years had battled with the wild 
Atlantic storms, was not considered sufficiently high, and 
a noble lighthouse, with a lighting apparatus fitted accord- 
ing to the improvements and engineering of the present 
day, now stands on the Longships Rock. The light shines 
at an elevation of no feet above high-water mark, and is 
visible at a distance of 18 miles. Brighter, clearer, more 
cheering by their glorious rays do the lamps now burn in 
the new lighthouse, warning the mariner of the treacherous 
rocks, and guiding him to his desired haven. 


y Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 

Year after year, through all the silent night, 
Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that indistinguishable light. 

“ Like the great giant Christopher, it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave; 
Wading far out among the rocks and sands. 

The night-o’ertaken mariner to save. 

“ And the great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells ; 
And ever joyful as they see it burn, 

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.” 



♦ 


NOTE. 


The new lighthouse which was erected on the Longships some years ago has 
not been free from accidents. The Western Morning News oi Nov. i, 1877, 
states, — 

“ It will be remembered that for several days signals of distress and a flag 
half-mast high were flying at the lighthouse, which was unable to communicate 
with the shore in consequence of the fact that the signals long in use at the 
Longships had been taken away and a new code substituted, the rough sea mak- 
ing boat communication impossible. It seems that the accident occurred on 
25th of October. Just after dinner the housekeepers (Steer, Cutting, and Boyle) 
went down on the rock to stretch their legs, the weather having prevented their 
leaving the tower for more than a week. It was low water, and the weather was 
fine. Boyle was full of spirits and fun, and was cautioned by Steer, the princi- 
pal keeper, to mind what he was about or he would get into mischief. No 
sooner had this been said than the other keeper, Cutting, called out, ‘ He is gone 
over ; ’ and both rushed to the other side of the rock to try and rescue him. They 
got a rope under his right arm, and at the imminent risk of their own lives got 
him close up to the rock, but he seemed to be stunned and powerless, and was 
carried aw^ay by the strong tide from under their very hands, and, of course, they 
saw him no more. This is the fifth mishap which has occurred at the Long- 
ships, and confirms the opinion that in highly dangerous lighthouses none but 
staid and experienced men should be employed, young keepers being altogether 
unfit. 

“ In fine weather they take liberties with the sea, not knowing its treacherous 
character, and in heavy gales they are terror-stricken at the frightful waves 
which break over the tower. The first cause hurried poor Boyle to his doom ; 
and it is upon record that in more than one instance, notably in the case of the 
Longships, more than one untrained keeper has been driven insane from sheer 
terror/' 


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